


0 to 60 in the time it takes to Fall

by Eturni



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Brother Francis is not brother francis, Crowley honestly has no clue what to do with himself, Early years Warlock, Eventual Fluff, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Graphic descriptions of the fall, Gun Violence, History through the lens of wikipedia pages, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Just enough of a bastard to be a decent demon, Multi, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, The Dowlings' A+ Parenting (Good Omens), Warlock Dowling Joins The Them, blood mention, discussion of marriages of convenience, major character discorporation, torturing an insect, wing chapter if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2020-06-25 00:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 41,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19735057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eturni/pseuds/Eturni
Summary: It's the 14th century (ugh) and in the middle of tending to those suffering and dying of the plague Aziraphale finds himself questioning why. Why so many children? Why are the tragedies always so big? Crowley knows how dangerous questions can be and Aziraphale all too quickly finds out.But now there's nothing at all holding Aziraphale back from his feelings. No opposed sides or plausible deniability to be maintainned. And Aziraphale is a being who does not indulge himself by halves. It may take Crowley a little while to come around to the fact that his angel had to Fall to cross the divide between them but at least they have all the time in the world to work out what that means for them. Until the birth of the antichrist, at least.





	1. When asking questions is a sin

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the result of [this](https://weaver-z.tumblr.com/post/185965443209/laughing-my-ass-off-imagining-the-chaos-that-would) post on tumblr by Weaver-z. The first chapter isn't nearly as funny as chapter 2, which was the initial result, but hey apparently I have a need to put everyone's favourite angel through some pain before he gets to any happiness.

Falling (with a capital F), as it turns out, is just a euphemism for moving from Above to Below. It came with none of the usual odd feeling that part of you was moving slower than the rest and you were just waiting for it to catch up with your body. Later, when there was less wailing and gnashing of teeth and _pain_ to be focused on, Aziraphale would think that perhaps it was just a word for something that had never happened before. That humans had cottoned onto it and applied it to their own experiences. After all there wasn’t much falling to be done in Heaven before the war and the Falling. Not much at all to be getting in the way.

Falling, as it turns out, is much more like finding oneself suddenly overwhelmed by everything and nothing being exerted all at once. The whole cosmos disappearing from underneath his feet like being thrown from the metaphorical garden. It was being pulled apart by the emptiness of vacuum and crushed at the heart of a black hole. Like slowly freezing to death and then the heat, the agony (all the worse for the soul-deep cold) of his grace dripping out atom by atom in a torture that could have lasted a lifetime.

And then the boiling sulphur which, despite the basement office aesthetic of Hell, had been kept around rather like a favourite childhood toy that didn’t quite work any more but had too many memories to let go of. Or maybe it did work still. Maybe the pit had stayed around knowing that there was one more angel to Fall.

It was immediate. Fierce flashes of pain. Molten fire along his wings, tearing at his skin, pushing through his essence and burning, burning,  _burning_ .

And yet never filling the suddenly empty place where his grace had been.

Aziraphale knew that he must be screaming

Suddenly there were claws on him, carving in and dragging him up through the surface and onto something like land. There was still fire on his skin and he looked around and truly, deeply understood as he beheld the imps that had retrieved him from the pit. Squat, pustular creatures chittering at each other with excitement before turning to him with occultly bright eyes.

“You’re late for your meeting. Lord Beelzebub won’t be happy to be kept waiting.” One of them declared; not bothering to explain that in Hell the time was always Too Late and that there wasn’t another option for when he arrived.

The idea of being late, of being expected _at all_ left Aziraphale so momentarily stunned that he allowed the imps to herd him forward with only the barest questioning protest.

Flustered, he tried to straighten out his cuffs and felt the ground tilt dangerously below him as he caught sight of bare flesh, a ruined not-quite-100-year-old tunic and (most alarmingly) odd charred feathers embedded sporadically where flesh was on show.

A hand that Aziraphale barely recognised as his own came across and tugged at one of the feathers. Embedded definitely, and the sharp pain brought the vague sense of being disjointed from his form into sudden, sharp focus.

This was his essence, sans corporation. In Hell. The pain of it was burning along the very core of him, more intense where clawed hands were making an attempt to push him forward.

Aziraphale clasped his hands together, hard enough that, were his form corporeal, the knuckles would have gone white. As it was, it only caused the caustic burn of the sulphur to flare around his hands. He could feel the empty place inside of him and the changes and the push of the imps moving his legs forward and felt the urge to scream. To run and claw his way upwards away from this place.

He felt his own lip wobble perilously as he realised that if he did flee there was no Heaven for him to run back to any more. The only person that was left after being cast down was...

_No, no, no this can’t be happening but Crowley, please, if it is, where’s Crowley?_

Aziraphale looked around frantically, almost surprised to see a press of bodies around him, a dark closed-over maze of thin, winding halls not quite big enough to comfortably pass by. The whole place was like a stark old manor, designed by an unhinged mind, frigidly cold with moth-eaten tapestries and unsettling paintings lining the walls.

_Crowley, where are you? Did you_ do _this? Is that why they were expecting me?_

It was an odd feeling, the twist in his stomach at the thought that Crowley’s influence had sunk its fangs into his own small misgivings about the plague and torn him apart so completely. That he hadn’t been strong enough in his faith to withstand it.

He had only meant well. Had only wanted more of those poor people to survive the terrible disease.

Oddly enough for how sick he felt he couldn’t find it in himself to wish that he hadn’t thought it. He knew that the plan was ineffable, all things by Her will, but how could it be bad to wish that more of them had lived? And, perhaps, to wish that the progression of Christianity hadn’t stalled the progression of the culinary arts in so many of the now war-torn areas of the world.

Still, despite the situation that he had found himself in, Aziraphale was an intelligent being and his mind was already working ahead of him through the lingering pain to try to find a way out of this with the minimum of fire and torture.

When he was finally brought into a room he was faced with a small crowd of interested onlookers huddled around the back of a twisted iron throne. The figures were scarred and infected and unkempt and… well, generally, nothing like the one demon Aziraphale had cause to know. It made him wonder, perhaps shallowly, whether he had suffered the same in his transfiguration. The central figure on the throne was in a tunic that Crowley would call old fashioned but that honestly wasn’t so far from Aziraphale’s tastes and looked vaguely as though they had caught the kissing disease whilst being dragged through a hedge backwards.

They were currently leaning forwards, elbows on knees and looking at Aziraphale like a child might look at the beauty of a butterfly before smashing it in between chubby, destructive hands. “It hath been an age sinzz we lazzt had cauzze to welcome a rebelliouzz angel.” Beelzebub’s head tilted to the other side, smirk growing smugger, if that was possible. “A prinzzipality, if our man on the ground izz correct.”

“Well, yes, and a fine welcome it is...” Aziraphale hedged, resisting the urge to pull at a collar that simply wasn’t there any longer. He knew he had winced and only hoped that the others would look on it as his old station being anathema to him.

The fact that it was; that it made him want to scream and cry to be missing that piece of him.

“Speaking of which.” Aziraphale pressed after a moment to gather himself. _Why isn’t he here? Where is he? Does he even know?_ “I think I’m about ready to…. Get up there and make some trouble.”

“So eager to leave already?” Beelzebub’s gaze pinned him steadily and Aziraphale’s mind, already working on time and a half, was about to start asking for time off in lieu if he wasn’t careful.

“Well, Crowley did make a rather… solid argument… for what you all do here. And I’ve spent quite so much time with the humans I can’t think of a better way to spend my eternity than tempting them to some truly wicked, evil acts. He tried not to cringe, hoping that he sounded normal. What exactly even was normal for a newly Fallen angel more than 5300 years after the last recorded Fall?

There was another dubious look and Aziraphale was talking again, hearing his words at about the same time he was thinking it. “Used to being up there and all. Not to mention we might have some work on our hands with whatever replacem-”

The thought strikes like lightning halfway out of his mouth. They would, of course. Heaven had always been a little dismissive of his role, of _him_ , but after hearing that he’d fallen? They’d send someone else. Someone who’s goal could very well be the destruction of his earthly adversary. Someone who wouldn’t love humans and their quirks and their nature anywhere near the same way that he could.

He hadn’t felt his hands balling into fists until Beelzebub’s buzz of laughter shook him from his sudden reverie. The skin was unbearably raw from the sulphur and had cracked, weeping, across the backs of his hands. He barely noticed it for the fact that somewhere out there another angel could be trying to make their way to his eternal counterbalance.

It was one of his worst fears about the Arrangement borne true in the worst possible way. Heaven’s wrath would have been terrible for Aziraphale but he could barely hear anything above the rush of something that definitely wasn’t blood in his ears at the thought of what an angel willing to smite could do finding Crowley alone. His dear boy who didn’t deserve this.

Beelzebub was speaking and Aziraphale was nodding and being shown away by some imp or another and the ex-angel heard none of it for the overwhelming screaming in his mind that demanded that he find Crowley first.


	2. The Spartan kick to Crowley's door

Aziraphale stood at the door to the small dwelling and adjusted the edge of his tunic carefully. It had taken him almost a year to finally track Crowley down and now that he was here he was suddenly, inexplicably nervous.

For all that he had screamed and railed and begged for the demon’s familiar presence as he burned, _Fell_ , and was led through the trials and jeers of the denizens of Hell it was suddenly left to him to wonder. Would he truly be happy to see him? And like this?

Oh, Crowley had ever been the wily serpent, pushing one too many buttons and whispering doubts that struck too close to the core, but the fact of the matter was that everything he did seemed to be some  annoyance or mischief set to bring out the anger and the evil that was already there. And, on more than one occasion, something with a terribly long winded explanation of why it was so  _deviously evil_ that spoke so much more of the spark of kindness. And so Aziraphale still didn’t quite believe that for all of his posturing Crowley truly meant for the end result of their millennia long dance around each other to be… well… this. Especially not so soon after they’d finally got the Arrangement sorted out.

But there was nothing for it. And he had taken this long to track the demon down having apparently gone to ground. And Heaven… Hell? (oh it was a bother to suddenly have to re-figure which words suited his lexicon) knew that he didn’t want to go back down there. Not even without the added black-hole style gravitational force of a Crowley who was now, suddenly, completely and utterly on the same side.

So Aziraphale took in a deep, careful breath, tried not to grin despite the mirth pulling at his cheeks and eyes, and ever so carefully lifted a leg to kick the door in front of him.

Having never done such a thing before there was a brief moment for embarrassment to register as the hinges creaked dangerously- considering just letting go of the door altogether but reconsidering quickly and holding on for dear life as the wood belted against the wall and almost fully closed again.

“Sorry, I. No, I mean, completely on purpose! Certainly meant to cause any disturbance!” He called into the gloom of the property.

It was a little bit anti-climactic if he was honest. He’d spent a long time dwelling on the kind of thing Crowley would be smug about (proud of, but even with this new freedom and position Aziraphale wasn’t quite ready to examine that one too closely) and settled on a slightly shocking but mostly annoying and definitely dramatic entrance.

Into a home that, for all intents and purposes, was abandoned.

If the not-angel wasn’t so certain of himself that he had found his serpent again he would have been convinced that this was just another home, deep in the heart of Europe, that had been abandoned to the horror that was the plague. A thick layer of dust was settled on the few possessions scattering the  fachhallenhaus and Aziraphale vaguely wished that he wasn’t trying to be so demonic and laid back as he’d certainly have usually taken out his handkerchief at this point to cover his face against the dirt and dust hanging in the air.

Still, he braved onwards towards the back of the dwelling. He had always had some sense of where his adversary was in the world, slightly stronger after the Arrangement and now humming warm beneath his skin like the permission he’d given his feelings also  increased the influence of that sense in him.

Crowley was definitely there. And definitely, despite evidence to the contrary – chiefly but not solely the lack of breathing- alive. He was curled in on himself on a fairly simple cot and covered in almost the same thickness of dust as the room surrounding him.

Initially Aziraphale couldn’t help but worry. The body seemed well enough and obviously Crowley hadn’t discorporated yet but there was something in the unnatural stillness that took some getting used to. Crowley was always odd angles and leaning and restless movement  so this was uncharted territory.

What it also was, after the initial unease, was the most significant, wonderful moment of Aziraphale’s existence up until that point. Crowley, there in front of him with no more theological or ethical (or when called for, physical) boundaries between them but an inch and a half of dust.

And suddenly he c ouldn ’t stand to wake him.  Bring him i nto the height (he hoped it was the height and there was no further up?down? to go) of the plague where children were left dying in the street or boarded up into houses ‘just in case’. Crowley had always had a soft spot for children – especially where natural disasters and ineffable plans were involved. To a world that had fallen backwards instead of moving forwards.

Suddenly, for all of the build up of need in his chest, Aziraphale wanted Crowley to sleep for just as long as he wished.

Anyway. It would also help give him some time to think about exactly what he wanted to say when he faced the other.  _I don’t blame you. I’m sorry it took me so long. Please don’t let it be too late to be honest with you._

Surprisingly – or not if one knew Anthony Crowley – it was almost a solid decade more before the demon came to full consciousness again. In which time Aziraphale had taken to covering for the other by reporting both of their demonic activity. (Terrible business, saving children from the plague, forced to grow up orphaned and with no recourse for help. It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to understand how Crowley did it – something could look terrifyingly  _wrong_ even if you meant right, as long as you put the right spin on it). He had also seen no sign, yet, of any replacement adversary from Upstairs.

Those thoughts  slip away like water from a swan’s back when h e return s one evening to Crowley finally starting to stir. It felt like the first morning in the garden of Eden. Or the first time Crowley, Crawly, had looked at him with that  surprised but maybe impressed smirk.  He c a n’t find any more restraint in himself as he rushe s to the bed and gra bs Crowley by the hand, eyes fever bright as he carefully duck s out of the way of a well placed punch  and looked  _finally_ into Crowley’s own .  Nothing in the way.

“Good morning – stop screaming Crowley it’s just me – good morning. You’ve slept through a good portion of the 14th century.” Aziraphale greets, not unkindly catching Crowley’s flailing hands and smiling softly into the other’s alarmed face until it settles into something like recognition.

“Eh? Fff-- mng…. Angel?” The demon’s face slips through several attempts at words before something coherent comes out.

And Aziraphale’s smile, impossibly, grows softer as he places his  free  hand in the other’s and squeezes  both . “Well, yes, you see, about that...”


	3. It's not the waking, it's the Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley does his best to refuse to understand what's happened and Aziraphale attempts a crash course in getting him to the place it took Aziraphale a decade to reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who had left Kudos and comments so far.  
> The original prompt for this was humorous and I stg I'm getting to the spirit of it soon. Apparently I have a certain level of angst to get out of the system before these two idiots can just be happy, though.

Crowley blink s blearily, half convinced that he’s heard wrong but there’s a crushing weight on his chest and around his throat and he  _ knows _ that his body is right on the money, grasping desperately for glasses to hide his eyes as his mind fights to catch up.

“Sorry, no, I… misheard there. Something in the old ear canal. That’s what a good long nap will do for you,  attract the earwigs . What time is it, anyway? Looks like I’ve been out longer than eight hours.”  He look s around, desperate to find something else to talk about. “Surprised you didn’t use the opportunity to thwart me while I was out. Dreadfully lazy  to be asleep so long . Good sin, that one, you know. I often-”  Aziraphale squeeze s his hands again, a fond if slightly exasperated smile lighting his face.

Crowley very suddenly finds that his voice isn’t working properly as he looks down at the space between them where Aziraphale is _still_ touching him. Crowley thinks that it should feel good, Aziraphale had always felt like resting on a hot rock under the sun even aside from the illicit feeling of doing something neither Heaven nor Hell would be happy about. Instead there’s the rumble of something like fear in him and he’s suddenly too hot.

“ You should be more careful.” He pulls himself away, the alarmed buzzing in his head still trying to drown out what he’d heard. “Never know who’s watching. All that stuff about what your side wouldn’t like, right?” He rambles on.

This time when he turns the brightness in Aziraphale’s smile has dimmed and he looks perhaps a little unsure of himself, fidgeting carefully with the hem of his tunic as though looking for something terribly important. “Crowley...”  Aziraphale bites anxiously at his lower lip as he considers his options.  


_ You’re disappointed aren’t you? _ The thought struck him as Crowley tried to deny the change. It seemed unfair, to think that perhaps the other only wanted to play this game with someone who wouldn’t let himself be caught. But no, he’d spent millennia of the silly old serpent pushing and pushing at the cracks in his boundaries. If he was going to try and run now that  Aziraphale was finally free of the things that had held him back he had another thing coming.

Aziraphale stands and crosses the room to where Crowley is still pacing like a cornered animal and holds out his hands over again, patiently waiting for the demon to stop his fussing and get to the heart of whatever it was going through his extraordinarily thick skull. “Come now, it can’t be all that bad can it?”

Crowley shakes his head, bares his fangs for a moment, but he never could deny Aziraphale anything for long and he reaches out to grip one hand. Perhaps a little too tight, and yes slightly turned away from the other, so used to keeping up the façade of plausible deniability. So used to protecting the angel from either side’s retribution. But now...

“Your eyes...” If there’s a slight whine to his voice Crowley will deny that too as he shifts to finally look at the other head on. He reaches up as if to get a better look but stops just shy of actually touching the other, hand hovering at Aziraphale’s cheek as his eyes flit between the other’s fretfully. They’re still blue, at least, but there’s almost no white to them and the pupil was almost alarmingly big, a complete contrast to Crowley’s own slit pupils.

“More than that, I’m afraid, my dear.”  Aziraphale assure s , not unkindly. “They gave me a close enough approximation of the old body. I think there was something about it being a fitting reminder, though I don’t know if it was for me or Heaven.”

A ziraphale reaches up, presses Crowley’s hands against his cheeks where they fit far too well and the serpent’s heart is suddenly an uncertain tap dancer trying to desperately find a rhythm. If there was still any lingering doubt in Aziraphale’s mind about Crowley’s motives after his long years of thinking it would have dissolved at the way that the other’s face instantly crumpled somewhere in between the words and the first press of hands against the ex-angel.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Aziraphale smiles and ever so slightly increases the pressure on Crowley’s hands as he tries to pull away, to retreat in on himself. “Now Crowley, don’t go being kind. We can’t have that.”

Crowley shakes his head, pulls away again and this time Aziraphale lets him move but keeps the gentle contact. After all, given the serpent’s almost angelic patience these last few millennia, he figured that he was due some gentle but persistent chasing himself if that was what he needed. “But I didn’t – I never meant…”

“I know, we were always such good sport for each other. No chance the next angel they send is going to have any idea of just what it is to protect humanity from the stage instead of the wings. I think perhaps you could charm them just as easily as you did me though.”

Crowley wrenche s himself free of the grip with a choking noise and pac es  the room, hip swagger an agitated staccato. “ No! There’s no way. You’re  _ good _ Aziraphale. More than anyone, more than the fucking holiest of light bringing, Satan smiting,  harp strumming hosts. You’re better than all of them  _ combined _ there is  _ no way _ you could have… You  _ can’t _ be!”

“ Oh Crowley, my dear boy.” Aziraphale carefully sets himself on the  cot  bed to watch Crowley’s pacing, tears stinging at the edges of his eyes even as he absently miracles the bed free of dust.

“No! Don’t say that like  _ that _ . You don’t just.. I don’t care about… What do you even mean  _ sport _ ?! It’s never been-” Crowley is snarling and pacing but Aziraphale can acutely feel the pain in him the same way that he had once felt love and somehow they were both the same thing in this moment.

E ventually, when the broken sentences have completely turned into meaningless, strangled sounds, Aziraphale pats the little cot beside him and sits (with perhaps too gleeful a smile) through a round of expletives and strangled sounds before Crowley stalks over and throws himself down onto the bed.

“I can’t do this sober. How are you so  _ fucking _ calm Aziraphale?” He demands, reaching over to the bedside table, which is surprised to find itself actually a cabinet with a  small barrel of wine stashed inside.

Aziraphale smiles knowingly and waits for Crowley to pour them both glasses. He carefully waits until Crowley has had at least one good mouthful. He’s certainly not anywhere close to drunk enough, but he only hopes that the warmth and taste is enough to take some of the edge off. “Well, you see, I’ve had around a decade to get used to the idea. It took-”

Crowley launche s himself to his feet, glass shattering against the hard packed ground. “A ssssodding  _ decade _ ?”

_ Ah, not enough wine then _ . Aziraphale  thinks to himself as he absently nods, taking another sip of his own wine and expending a small miracle to knit Crowley’s glass back together.

“You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you up. I haven’t had to do it myself yet but it might be important for demons.” He reasons. Reasonably, or so Aziraphale thinks.

Crowley makes a sound that Aziraphale feels wouldn’t be out of place doubling for an annoyed constrictor being forced to swallow a set of keys rather than its expected meal.  Aziraphale assumes that Crowley finds the explanation less reasonable.

“I think you’re right though. Far too sober for this, indeed. Perhaps you should have a little more while I explain.” Aziraphale suggests as he pours another glass. He hopes it will ease the stricken look from Crowley’s face.

“Fine, don’t need an answer anyway, see if I care.” Crowley snatches the glass from Aziraphale’s hand and promptly downs it before pouring himself another. “What the He-aven have you been doing all this time then?”

A good couple of hours later, the barrel somehow not having run out yet, and Crowley is laying across the bed with his limbs at odd angles and his head in Aziraphale’s lap looking up at him with a mixture of adoration and unhidden grief. His glasses had ended up on the side at some point in the evening and left his expressions completely defenceless.

“They’re not allowed to make you Fall, you know. They made a mistake and we’re going to have to tell them to take you back. Bloody idiots.” Crowley slurs.

“I don’t want to go back.” Aziraphale shakes his head, tries to avoid the way that the room spins a little as he does so.

“But you’re _my_ angel.” Crowley presses, undeterred. “The best of the bunch. Always there to thwart my exce-egsa- wiley wiles. No one else will ever be what you are. I don’t want to be here without you. And how can they _not_ want you?! How dare-”

Aziraphale fights a laugh as he places a finger against Crowley’s lips, a warmth that isn’t the wine spreading through him as Crowley continues to try to talk regardless, lips smooshed against the finger.

He takes a moment to find his thoughts, taking some of the alcohol out of his system so that he can think clearly enough. “I thought it was what I wanted for so long. It would have been so much easier if everything truly was that black and white. I held on for so long, Crowley, and now I’m on the other side I can see how little sense it all made. I’d rather be here, by your side, and Fallen for what I am than spend another moment forcing down what I want because of what I _ought_ to do.”

Crowley spends a moment or two trying to process that. “But that’s the thing, isn’t it? No matter what you _always_ did what was ‘right and proper’.” The sarcasm in his voice at that turn of phrase sounded surprisingly clear and Aziraphale got the suspicion that Crowley wasn’t nearly as drunk as he let on. “You never deserved to Fall, to be like the rest of us. You’re too _good_ for that, angel.”

“You see, that’s just the thing.  I don’t know that I am. Was. Whatever.” He admits gently. “ Something  got lost and I won’t say that it doesn’t leave me empty but, really, I don’t feel different. I expected, becoming a demon, there’d be some immediate urge to tempt, or kick a puppy, or at least cause some  _ mischief _ but… I don’t feel so different at all. And I get the feeling that you didn’t either. That likely you still don’t.”  The smile he gives Crowley is shaky but he gently runs a hand through the other’s hair, feeling it ground him. “I’m no less good now. So either I was never good enough to be an angel or… or all of this is just…  arbitrary.”

“They’re not better on my side, you know. Most of them are pretty happy to cause mayhem whoever and whatever.” Crowley presses, as if Aziraphale could change his mind and be taken back.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. It all feels very much like people just doing the jobs they’ve been given. And aside from anything else Hell has you, my dear boy. That’s more important than any of the rest.”

Crowley sighs in frustration and brings an arm up to dramatically drape over his face. His eyes. And Aziraphale carefully does not mention that he can see the demon’s jaw clenched hard enough to break a mortal man’s teeth. Nor does he mention the slight glisten on his cheeks.

There would still be so much to go over. Still a replacement angel for them to suss out and avoid being smitten (smote?) by. But there was also the rest of time stretching before them. Time enough for it all.

When Aziraphale settles Crowley into bed he feels a certain degree of smug satisfaction as he curls himself at Crowley’s back and holds him close enough to hurt, though the other doesn’t offer a single word of dissent. He thinks it would kill Heaven to know how well someone could take a Fall. But no angel before had a thing to fall _towards_.


	4. More than words can manage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a slightly nervous Aziraphale has to do enough talking for the both of them, decidedly does not apologise, and then decides that talking will not work on a demon who's actions have always been the thing that shows his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've finally reached the fluff. I have no idea how pacing works apparently but an attempt was made. The pace should start to pick up with a hopefully slightly longer chapter next time too.  
> I also think I may have properly figured out where this is going and we're going to make it to the apocalypse.  
> A massive thank you to everyone who's left Kudos (more than 100, I'm honestly gobsmacked) and comments (I owe you my life and a good chunk of my motivation).

Aziraphale is almost a little surprised when Crowley wakes up the next morning just as he’s come back from the nearest small holding where he had been helping a lovely young couple set up now that the area was starting to recover properly from the black death.

The other demon looks around confused for a moment or two as though doubting his surroundings. The second his eyes fall on Aziraphale, however, he goes snatching for his glasses, setting them on his face with a determined ferocity.

Aziraphale looks away and tries not to let show how disappointed he is that Crowley still needs to keep up that barrier with him. He knows it’s perfectly reasonable given that all of this is still new to the other but it doesn’t stop it smarting a little.

“Morning. I didn’t realise you’d be awake so soon. How long does it usually last when you sleep like that?” He tries as an opening gambit.

Crowley’s eyes follow him across the room, he’s certain, but he doesn’t respond immediately and soon Aziraphale finds himself fidgeting and uncomfortable in the silence. When he sits down on the cot Crowley flinches away from him just slightly and Aziraphale purses his lips but politely moves a little further away. Crowley had been such a dear all these years after all.

“I’ve taken a few trips around the countryside recently. You seemed to be a little more alert and I didn’t want to be sowing my wiles too far away, you see. Terrible business, rising taxes and cutting off access to land. It’s making everything quite like a powder keg.” Aziraphale distractedly sets to clearing the place of dust once more to avoid putting too much scrutiny on Crowley.

Honestly, the dissent in all of Europe was so high at the moment that he needed to do surprisingly little but whisper the odd word in the correct ear. He was far from new at it, he’d already taken on the odd temptation as part of the Arrangement, but being a demon had opened up how simple it was to turn the dark rumblings at the back of a person’s mind into something they would act on.

Crowley nods slowly, tiredly. “Yep. That’ll do it every time.” He agrees in the kind of vague way that gives the distinct impression he hadn’t actually heard a word that he’d said.

“But you see, it seems like they’re going to deal with things on their own now, all this bad feeling already there and all. So I was thinking we could perhaps try out Temasek. They’re doing some fine trade with China and Vietnam and with so many people passing through there’s a lot that can be done.” Aziraphale knows that he’s rambling but can’t seem to stop himself. Talking about feelings directly was something he didn’t want to try with the other still adjusting but without _any_ conversation it was just so hard to get a good idea of what he should be saying.

And of course Crowley was just staring at him from behind those glasses with his face far more schooled than it was before. It’s rather infuriating, really. Not to mention unfair. “We?”

“I, well, yes… We.” Aziraphale gives a slight shrug that rolls along his arm, stretching out to close the gap between them. He pointedly leaves his hand palm up on the bed at the midpoint between them.

“Well what happened to…” Crowley cast about the room with his eyes and hands as if he could conjure something from thin air. “Hereditary enemies. Not even friends.”

Aziraphale purses his lips again, sighs as he catches Crowley’s flailing wrists in his hands. The serpent looks stricken for all of a second but stops, gulping down the rest of his words. Aziraphale can’t quite tell if it’s fear, anger or the same warm feeling of _finally_ that Aziraphale feels with their flesh pressed together, even that small amount.

“Look, I’m already well aware that demons do _not_ apologise. So this is, in no way, shape or form, an apology. But I wish I would have chosen you sooner.” Crowley’s throat bobs again and this time Aziraphale’s almost sure it’s a good sign. Wants it to be, at least. “I wanted things to be easy that way and that was, perhaps, cowardly of me. I still want to be able to believe in something like that. All this faith still left over and I want to put some of it in you. Your incessant questions and second guessing. I think I should like to be as certain as you are about how damnably uncertain everything is.”

Aziraphale’s rambling again. And quite possibly repeating himself. And Crowley still isn’t saying anything.

But his hands are trembling. And Aziraphale has no idea if he’s even looking at him thanks to the sunglasses. And he isn’t _saying_ anything.

Finally his jaw starts to work and Aziraphale is immediately tugging his own hands back to his lap, wringing his fingers together nervously.

“I can’t be-what does that-what do you expect me to say to that, angel?”

“Tell me I’m too late.” Crowley’s whole body shivers as Aziraphale’s hands come to rest on his shoulders, holding the other firmly in place with a strength he doesn’t truly feel. He leans in as slowly as he can manage while he desperately wants to grab hold of everything that he’s been missing.

Crowley’s hands come up and grab Aziraphale’s wrists then spasm slightly as if he expects to be burned touching him. Aziraphale freezes in an instant, mouth falling just slightly open in a sigh that might have been a sob in another life. The warmth of it brushing across Crowley's face is almost unbearable. The sudden twist to Aziraphale's mouth as he tries to smile through it is worse.

Crowley’s protest dies on his lips as he sees the next few moments far too clearly. He will. True to his word Aziraphale will just stop and pull away. Maybe even leave. After that Crowley doesn’t know if he will ever have this in front of him again and he forgets why he even thought of denying the other.

Instead of removing those hands he squeezes Aziraphale’s wrists like he might fall off the world in a minute. “Yes.” He whispers in a way that could have just as easily been _please_.

The word is cracked and uncertain. Embarrassed, he goes to lick at his lips but Aziraphale is already surging forwards and there’s a very awkward moment as his tongue is pressed and pushed out of the way by lips he shouldn’t have imagined nearly as many times as he had.

It’s right. And not in the way that Heaven was Right. Correct. Aziraphale was right in the way that he was so much more real than anything Crowley had felt before. Giving him a thing that he didn’t want to question any more. He would, precisely _because_ he was Crowley, but this was the only thing in the world he would even consider accepting without question.

Something warm fills up inside him and he thinks it might be better than a grace ever was.

He knows, distantly, that this is going to come and bite him in the ass at some point down the line. Demons weren’t supposed to be happy (apart from revelling in the suffering of damned souls) and certainly weren’t supposed to care like this. But the demon Crowley was nothing if not an optimist and he was certainly happy enough to follow this as far as it went. The consequences would have to catch him first and Aziraphale would be the first to say how slippery a serpent he could be.

With that thought in mind he slowly pulls away from the kiss, slightly addled but equally smug when Aziraphale leans in to chase after him, a couple of brief brushes of his lips chasing the feeling and warming Crowley’s usually cold flesh.

“Where were we going, again?” Crowley asks, proud of himself for how nonchalant he manages to make it sound.

Aziraphale casts around for a minute to try and find a coherent thread of thought that isn’t the demon before him. Anywhere. Nowhere, why would he ever want to move? “Temasek, it’s-”

“Temasek, yeah. Sounds about right. Can get out of this shithole and cause some trouble.” Crowley is practically glowing, even if he isn’t actually looking at Aziraphale. Then he tips his head to smirk at the ex-angel, glasses just enough askew that he can finally see his eyes and _they’re_ glowing too.

Aziraphale grabs the back of Crowley’s neck and brings him in clumsily until they’re close enough to taste the same air. Crowley’s heart does an odd trip over it’s own beat as Aziraphale declares “Tomorrow, maybe. Or the day after.” and pulls him close again.


	5. Mandatory wing chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley pulled back a little, mouth ever so slightly agape for all of a second before he seemed to pull himself together. “I-you-well.. fshh it’s” the demon took in a deep breath and shook his head briefly to clear it “I was talking about your wings. They’re a bloody mess.”  
> In which Crowley and Aziraphale are about to leave Germany to sow discord elsewhere, but if Aziraphale's truly a demon now he can't be allowed out looking like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has been a while coming guys. I had intended to do a slightly more jaunt across time chapter but then a single scene turned into 1,000 words and I didn't want to leave everyone waiting much longer for an update. Next chapter should be longer and hopefully won't take as long- though I'm back at work now and we actually have warm weather in England which is... not what I'm built for.  
> Again thank you so much for everyone reading and leaving kudos and comments.

As it happened they did not leave the following day. Aziraphale was ready, having spent the entirety of the night laid in the cot next to Crowley and drinking in his fill of the sharp lines of the other’s face.

Crowley actually woke up, which at this point was a novelty for Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s comment on it earned him a sleepy ‘ _Sssshut up, angel.’_ which only made the dangerous warmth in him swell further. He could hear that whenever he wanted now, not just at crossing points and clandestine meetings but in the early morning when Crowley was still adjusting back to reality. Aziraphale honestly didn’t know how he had spent so long holding onto his position in Heaven.

True to his usual form Crowley had amassed almost nothing in the house he’d been using and there was little to take with them.

The problem they encountered was when they made to set off and Aziraphale summoned his wings from the ethereal-occult space, rolling his shoulders and neck to try and ease the stretch of the muscle.

“What. Is. _That_?” Crowley was right by his side, close enough that the hint of a hiss in his words was clear.

Aziraphale immediately flinched, looking to the door half-worried that someone had come in, even knowing as he did that human attention simply bypassed the demonic elements of their forms. When there was nobody there he turned to the other to question what he meant only to find Crowley looking at him, eyebrows arching high over his glasses but not otherwise giving anything away.

He nervously looked down at himself, wondering if the shift had done something t didn’t ought to. The wings had miraculously, as was always the case, not torn through his clothing. The hint of other feathers across his corporation remained out of sight. Everything seemed to be in order. “What is _what_ , darling?” He finally gave up trying to locate it himself.

Crowley pulled back a little, mouth ever so slightly agape for all of a second before he seemed to pull himself together. “I-you-well.. fshh it’s” the demon took in a deep breath and shook his head briefly to clear it “I was talking about your wings. They’re a bloody mess.”

One of the offending wings pulled around immediately for inspection, Crowley only saved from being battered by the almost automatic flow of his body backwards and away from it. No blood at all. Perhaps slightly ruffled but by no means mangled.

_Thank goodness. Or evil. Either way_ . Aziraphale had been convinced that mangled was exactly how they’d be after the burning of his celestial essence.

“What? They’re perfectly fine.” He hated how defensive his voice came out, but he did tend to take Crowley’s criticisms of his looks far more to heart. Not that he was going to change a blessed thing, you understand, only that the other’s opinion _meant_ more to him. “They’ve had better days but they’re perfectly serviceable.”

“No, I’m not going to risk being seen out with you looking like that.” Crowley insisted, sliding his glasses down just far enough to like like a judgemental librarian. He jerked his head insistently towards the cot and glowered at the other.

“Really, is this strictly necessary for just a short flight?” Aziraphale did his best to implore Crowley with the slightest of pouts, fidgeting with his hands in front of him. He hadn’t spent much time looking at his wings since he Fell and didn’t fancy starting now with the other’s eyes on him.

“Just sit down and let me take care of it.” The other sighed after another few moments of silence, obviously not intent on letting up.

Aziraphale felt something cavernous open up in him at the thought, heat pricking at the back of his neck and over his ears. Crowley’s wings always seemed to be so well cared for and the thought of the other actually helping him with the task, of him seeing the mess of them so close… It made him want to back out of the house in shame. It kept him held there in anticipation. After all, no matter Crowley’s complaints it was an intimate gesture to offer up so matter of fact.

“I don’t see why we need all this fuss, dear boy.” Aziraphale tutted, trying far too hard for nonchalant even as he obediently sat on the cot where Crowley indicated. “Either way I can’t imagine they’ll ever get right again after all that burning business.”

Crowley’s fingers dug into his feathers reflexively before very carefully going still and Aziraphale realised he’d hit a nerve. He had to remind himself that demons didn’t apologise. At any rate it would be meaningless when he didn’t exactly know which part of it had caused the offence.

“You know, that’s why we, _our lot_ ,” Crowley’s voice is surprisingly soft as he starts on the other’s marginal coverts, the scapulars still existing in the space under and through the fabric of Aziraphale’s tunic “make sure to keep up to them. They don’t ever sit right again but She couldn’t take them from us. Could only ground us so much.”

Aziraphale fell silent at that for a moment, weighing the words as he closed his eyes to take in the feel of Crowley’s hands very carefully adjusting and smoothing his feathers. He could feel the tension thrumming in his limbs as he wondered what was going through the other’s head, imagining the worst of what he may be thinking. He reached up to absently play at the inner secondary coverts, shifting them back into alignment without any particular pattern to it.

“Leave it, angel.” Crowley muttered distractedly from where he was working.

“Well I just- that is...”  


“I know what you just. I know what I’m doing. Just... Just let me take care of it, will you?”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but subside a little at the words, trying his best to make himself relax. “Of course, my dear. Your wings do always look so charmingly well kempt. I trust you to take care of me.”

“Not _you_.” Crowley hissed. “The wings. I don’t _do-_ ”

The fussing at his feathers abruptly stopped as Aziraphale reached a hand back and rested it on Crowley’s nearby leg. “The wings it is then. I rather don’t mind as long as it’s you.” He squeezed when Crowley made a strangled sound in the back of his throat and finally took his hand away.

“You’re doing this on purpose.” He accused sourly, but didn’t stop working on the wings.

The feel of Crowley’s fingers deftly moving through his wings with a concentrated, methodical precision was calming enough that he didn’t deign to argue the point further. It left a heavy blanket of contentment that loosened his muscles and the lingering worry churning in his gut. It was also enough that Crowley had to pull him upright again several times, perhaps a little more roughly than needed but it only made Aziraphale smile to himself. The extra contact was grounding and was hopefully a sign that the other was really starting to accept things.


	6. A quick jaunt through the ages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't quite the episode three cold opening but I wanted to try my hand at a couple of snapshots of things developing for the two of them over the years.  
> I may have gotten slightly carried away compared to my other chapters so sorry if it's a little bit of a long haul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are several things that are a little bit apocryphal either by necessity or because there was only so much research I could be bothered to do. For one I apparently will never remember the timeline for the development of wine containers. And I'm comfortable with that fact.  
> I can get a bit wordy sometimes with things like this so any feedback would be appreciated.  
> Thank you to everyone who's left kudos or comments so far.

**Temasek - 1389**

Crowley spent the majority of the flight to Temasek cautiously looking at Aziraphale from the corner of his eye like he expected him to disappear. The rest of it looking over his shoulder as though he expected their superiors to suddenly appear from the aether and drag them apart.

Aziraphale did his best to keep well within his sight, especially when Crowley would start orbiting around him and he could tell the other’s anxieties were piquing.

It was bad enough that when their hands brushed as they touched down on terra firma again Crowley flinched back like he’d been scalded. Aziraphale managed a gentle smile that was, perhaps, more challenge than it might have been when he was an angel but let it be as they made their way to the port town.

It was a beautiful area of the world with traffic coming in and out from all the regions around. Which naturally meant bustling markets and, most importantly for Aziraphale, market stalls. With fusion cuisine. The mix of spices and warm smells in the air was enough to have him sighing in satisfaction just to have it fill his lungs. It didn’t quite banish the memory of years of bland, thin European food brought on by suffering and death.

“Spot of lunch?” He turned to Crowley with a broad, excited smile.

Crowley rolled his eyes hard enough that his head went with it but he sauntered forward dutifully into the crowd. Aziraphale found himself hanging back just enough to watch the fluid, slightly unstable, movement of his body. It was slightly hypnotic and made Aziraphale want to move alongside him, pulled by the flow of his body.

He only became aware of how much he was staring when Crowley turned and cocked an eyebrow at him expectantly; long and dangerous and worryingly pale among the crowd. Aziraphale found his eyes flickering away almost reflexively before he remembered that he didn’t have to hide anything any more. Still, it was possibly worth it for the smug look Crowley was giving him when he looked back again.

He didn’t even try to hide the smile as he picked up his pace to fall into step again, fingers reaching out to just gently brush at Crowley’s lower back. He revelled in the shiver he received in return before turning his attention to the options stretched out in front of him.

It was much like winding a spring tight and watching the chaos caused as it was released, Crowley thought as he very fondly followed in Aziraphale’s wake. He was persuaded to try several local delicacies alongside what was available from the traders coming through Malaysia, China, Majapahit and Vietnam as well as anything else that he could find that struck his fancy. Crowley was a lot more taken by the types of alcohol available, always was, but it was a singular experience to see Aziraphale so thoroughly giving himself over to the pleasures of new experiences with so much less of the usual reserve and to join in with it out in the open.

Yes, his skin itched every so often with the feeling that the other shoe was going to drop some time soon. But he was trying to accept that maybe there really was an upside to the situation. As long as he only thought about the fact that Aziraphale was on his side now and didn’t dwell too long on what he had lost to get there.

While they were wandering they even had the chance to pick out some clothes that would fit the area, especially if they planned on staying for a while. Crowley looked over the offerings available to him and quickly came to the conclusion that he would be female for the rest of her tenure here. The clothes were just so much more interesting.

“You’re hardly doing much to be different, paying for everything like that.” Crowley groused as Aziraphale came back having somehow picked out a baju melayu that was beige among the wealth of what was available. The fact that Crowley herself had an entirely black kebaya with red accents was neither here nor there to the serpent. Black was timeless and cool. Beige was…

When the thought _too much like Heaven_ came to him Crowley winced and felt the thought mingling there alongside what she’d just said. She still wasn’t certain at all whether she wanted to help Aziraphale adjust to this or whether she desperately wanted to keep the other as close to his old self as possible. Even if it meant holding onto his frumpy style choices.

“Well I’ve found with a little ingenuity you can call just about anything a win for either side.” Aziraphale shrugged nonchalantly. “After all, like you said about the ark, it did sound rather like… our lot. Well, downstairs.” He clarified. _Our lot_ seemed to feel an awful lot like just him and Crowley rather than all of Hell, if he was honest. “Besides, you just use a miracle to make yours, it’s hardly inconveniencing people.”

“Mine’s theft, pick out what I want and it’s with me instead of them. You’re just paying for them with a miracle.” She pointed out. Inconvenienced the poor bugger that spent so long making it.

“I’m helping to destabilise the economy. I thought you were the one who went for delayed gratification, Crowley.” Aziraphale arched an eyebrow primly, bringing his hands to clasp behind his back and placing the clothes onto his body in the same motion.

Her eyes narrowed, not that it was possible to tell through the dark glasses but Aziraphale got the feel of it regardless. “We’ll ssssee about that.” She smirked, leaning in close enough to feel the heat radiating from Aziraphale’s body and holding herself there for just a beat longer than was necessary before turning heel and heading back into the crowd. “Come on, not going to wait for you forever, an…gel.”

She slowed, just enough for Aziraphale to catch up and with the cogs obviously whirring in her head. Aziraphale waited patiently to see what had just occurred to her. “You know… I’ve seen bits of feathers poking through where they shouldn’t but I suppose I never asked… what animal did you even..? You know, when you, it happened?” The question came with a lot of hand gestures and restarts for someone trying to act casual.

“Hm? Oh, well at the end of it all it turned out to be a swan.”

“A _swan_?” Aziraphale was put entirely in mind of the first conversation they’d ever had, and a faintly incredulous _‘you w_ _o_ _t?’_

“Well I can’t help it if the truly demonic creatures are already taken. No reptiles or plagues left for me, I should imagine.” Aziraphale pulled at the edges of his baju with an annoyed sniff.

“Well no, I mean, yeah, suits you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you know _exactly_ what it means.” Crowley grinned, hips now swaying at an almost dangerous cadence.

“I know no such thing, Crowley. Aside from having wings, which every fallen angel still does as far as I know, it’s hardly-” Aziraphale was cut off by a flask of oil nearby finding itself suddenly on fire and quickly bubbling over onto everything in its vicinity.

“ _Crowley_.” He hissed, marching forward to yank at the other’s arm and drag her away from the crowd for the moment.

The other demon only shrugged at this, allowing herself to be pulled but maintaining a cold kind of barrier between them. “Here to sow discord after all.”

“I. Yes, well, _both_ of us, and that’s the point. But you’re not getting away from explaining yourself. How in the He-aven is a swan something that makes sense to you?”

“Well, it’s the whole...” Crowley grunted and waved her hand around vaguely. “Looks all pure and harmless but just as likely to try and drown you if it decides it doesn’t like the look of you. Very protective, and all that.”

Aziraphale frowned slightly at the explanation. He’d never _really_ harmed anyone before. Perhaps had strong words with people who tried to touch his scrolls or rare books. Even that one incident with the group trying to close down one of his favourite restaurants. Still, it was perhaps a little mollifying to hear that Crowley considered him to have some ruthlessness to him and that she was trying so hard, even with the knee jerk reaction she still seemed to be struggling with.

“Well, you’ve always been worth protecting, dear girl.” He smiled over to Crowley. If there was perhaps a slight smirk to it Crowley wouldn’t have seen given her sudden intent fascination with the path ahead of her.

Less than a week later found the two slumped together with a range of half empty alcohol containers strewn around them, Aziraphale pressing his hands into his eyeballs in clear aggravation.

“A fortnight, Crowley. S’all it took him. N’a’bit of a push from me.” Aziraphale reclined against a set of cushions he wasn’t certain had been there at the start of the evening and made sure Crowley was pressed firmly against his side now that she was pliant enough to just relax with him.

“Yeah, they’re gonna be singing your praises down there.” Crowley toasted, ignoring that the other didn’t raise his glass in return.

“No, no. You take this one my dear, lovely girl. Wasn’t especting it to go so well. N’ you’ve been looking after me so well. I think. Or did I look after you? Anyway, seemed like such a fine lad, that Paramesvara. Who’d have thought. Little whisper in the ear. You know what you’re doing, you could give this a go. Swish. Sang Aji dead. I swear I didun even push so hard.”

“Ahk.” Crowley waved a hand dismissively. “Never believed me before, did you angul? Been outdoing me for years. You give them a little push, not even a push, a nudge, a poke, a… a… whaddaya call it? A tickle? Tickle is all it takes! And they find something worse than I could ever get to. I tell you angel, my job’s the easy one.”

“Our job now.” Aziraphale smiled a little, bringing a hand up to brush through Crowley's hair, a little mollified by that after his unexpected success. He’d honestly just thought it was so easy before because things were just so hard in Europe. Everyone on edge and everything changing.

He was brought out of his reverie when he realised that Crowley hadn’t said anything in a while. He caught her eyes, wide and incredibly sad and perhaps even a little guilty. Golden almost to the edges in a way that made something squirm pleasantly in the other’s chest.

“Nope, that won’t do.” Aziraphale shook his head, barely aware that he had said the words aloud until Crowley’s jaw clenched.

He shifted around, rearranging Crowley’s limbs until he could hold the other against him possessively. It was a tricky thing to manage, even not fighting him Crowley’s limbs seemed to have a mind of their own as though they didn’t realise they were supposed to be attached on. It was only worse after a few good drinks. Something about the battle actually left him in a slightly better mood, which he needed after talking about his recent success.

“Wouldn’t go back now if they promoted me back to cherub.” He smiled, taking in a deep breath just to feel the pressure of the other’s weight against him. “Not if God Herself asked.”

“Don’t” Crowley shook her head, voice thick with an emotion the other couldn’t name.

“Alright. But it won’t make me less certain.” He shrugged, able to feel Crowley’s heart pounding against him, the brush of her breath against his neck. It was early days. And it was enough.

**Domrémy _\- 1424_**

Aziraphale stepped from his carriage into the central crossroads at Domrémy, looking up at the little church with only the slightest shiver of discomfort. It was too bad that such beautiful buildings were now inaccessible to him.

He brushed off the edges of his sleeves and adjusted his clothing until he was in a fit state to be seen and passed a couple of coins over to the driver. Crowley was here, he could feel it, but there was also something else nearby that didn’t sit nearly as well. He picked up his pace ever so slightly, the rumble of unease driving him from behind as the pull of the demon beckoned him forward.

He finally came to a small hill where he found Crowley watching over a set of workers in the fields. “You’re not supposed to be here, angel. Mongolia for you, wasn’t it?” Crowley asked without so much as looking up from his seat in the grass.

“Got done early, dear. The great horde won’t last much longer state that it’s in.” He responded with just the slightest amount of bite to it. “I don’t know what you and downstairs playing at keeping us on separate assignments for this long but I’m hardly impressed, Crowley.”

“You’re a little impressed.” The demon’s lips were pulling into a self-satisfied smirk as Aziraphale shook his head and sighed.

“It was definitely you and I know it.” He pointed out. “They were happy enough for me to report for you while you were too slothful to do your job. I know they don’t care enough to separate us.”

“Well, that’s what you get for making me your boss.”

“You’re going to get us different assignments again then.” Aziraphale worried at his lower lip, wondering what game the other was playing. He’d found he didn’t always like being on the blind side of ineffable things.

“Nope.” Crowley popped the ‘p’ with a relaxed smile that he finally turned to look at Aziraphale. “Don’t need to any more, but we’re going to have to leave sharpish once I’m done here. Don’t know if she’ll still be hanging around or not.”

Aziraphale was about to ask what Crowley was talking about when the other stood and nonchalantly rolled his wrists forward, a soft click and the familiar hum of demonic energy pervading the air.

“Lets get moving then.” He decided, turning on his heel and striding back off towards the village at a pace that gave Aziraphale the feeling that his sense of unease was well placed.

“Demon Crowley,” Crowley let out a long, hissing sigh as he froze in his tracks and turned to face the newest Heavenly arrival. “do you think that someone like you could possibly undo the work of one of our miracles? We’re not all as weak as the traitor.”

“Hey, Michael.” Crowley grinned with a confidence he wasn’t certain of. “No, surely couldn’t undo a miracle already done by one of the mighty archangels. Well and truly thwarted before I’d even started. Downstairs are going to be very cross I’m sure. Still, better be on our way.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed, boring into the both of them. Aziraphale was a little ashamed to find himself standing up straighter and fiddling at his cuffs like she was still someone he had to report back to when he’d done something tangential enough for Gabriel to drag him up to Heaven to explain himself.

“You _will_ explain to me what you did or I will destroy you and the traitor where you stand.” The archangel ordered sternly.

Crowley couldn’t help but rankle at that, but defending Aziraphale wouldn’t do him much good here. Still… He could already feel his jaw working, aching to extend and show off fangs. He only stopped with the slightest of starts when he felt a careful hand at his back.

“It’s Shamsiel now, actually, if you don’t mind.”

Crowley bit down on the shock and the dozen or so questions that came out of _that_ particular sentence. Wouldn’t do to look like he was on the back foot with the revelation too.

“I believe traitor will do just fine.” Michael pulled her lips into a smile but it only made her eyes look colder as she gave Aziraphale a dismissive once over.

Crowley stepped in if only to get her eyes off of him. “Well I either left it at cursing her sword hand or just made sure she’d keep her looks. You’d have to check for yourself though, wouldn’t you, mm? Can’t trust a demon to be telling the truth after all.”

The angel’s face flashed across a couple of expressions it couldn’t settle on before she looked over her shoulder to the fields again. “There’s no way you could curse anyone I’ve blessed, Crowley. Joan's faith will be a credit and an example for centuries to come.” But there was just a hint of uncertainty to it. It was enough to make Aziraphale’s stomach flip delightedly to see Crowley almost getting the upper hand. Best to make sure it lasted.

“Nice to see you again Michael. Sorry we couldn’t stay for much longer but it is time to go now.” Aziraphale waved back as he took Crowley’s hand and all but dragged him away, a jaunty (shaky) wave back at the other. “Good luck with all your miracles, I’m sure they’ll go swimmingly.” Michael may have muttered something at their retreating backs ‘ _this is not over with_ ’ but the non-existent blood was roaring in Aziraphale’s ears and all he could do was get them away before she changed her mind and started a fight. Discorporation would be such a fuss, especially after so little time in this body.

“What’d’ya do _that_ for? Michael’s a wanker, it would have been fun to piss her off some more.” Crowley complained as he let himself be dragged away.

“Yes and she’s not _like_ me. She’s a proper angel, with every chance that she truly would smite us where we stand.”

“What, with two of us? Against one of her?”

Aziraphale finally stopped, looked over to Crowley pointedly. “You weren’t planning on there being two of us.”

“Aaah, wasn’t really planning on getting caught at all, angel.” He pointedly tilted down his glasses just enough to look directly at the other and the stern look Aziraphale was attempting melted away into a mixture of worry and fondness. “Still, got done what I needed to. Might not have been able to undo anything but I’ve caused enough mischief and confirmed the new agent. Not bad for half a century’s work. Might even go for a nap after this.” Crowley stretched up and Aziraphale’s eyes trailed the long line of his body arching and causing his simple tunic to pull upwards.

It was distracting. But he’d spent millennia with the serpent trying to tempt him and he wasn’t so easily pulled off track any more. Most of the time.

“That’s why you had me off on other assignments.” It was somewhere between accusation and statement of fact.

“Look, angel.” The tone had the edge of annoyance but it wasn’t near as pronounced as it might be. “Don’t read too much into it alright. We needed to check out who the new man on the ground was and I just didn’t see any reason you had to put up with whichever smug bastard it was when they turned up.”

Aziraphale smiled and took Crowley’s hand in his, very carefully not looking at the other, or breathing, until he had a response. When the demon didn’t snatch his hand back after a long few seconds he finally dared to look and found Crowley looking up at the sky like he’d gotten stuck halfway through rolling his eyes.

“What did you actually do then? All of mine have been fairly simple. Get a politician to take a bribe, have a king doubting his best advisers. I know I took on temptations for you before this but they’re really about as lax as the other side were with their orders too. Only, you know, oddly specific instead of oddly vague.”

Crowley groaned and snatched his hand away, leaving a cold feeling where their skin had met. “Don’t tell me you’ve been following along with what _Hastur_ does?! Come on, angel, have some pride in your work. Just because he doesn’t have a clue about humans work doesn’t mean you can get off that lightly.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips at this and sighed. “Crowley, you’re always the one who looks as though he’s just personally lost an entire bottle of good whiskey when I talk too frankly about being a demon.”

“Well!” Crowley glowered, huffing when it didn’t move the conversation any further. “Look I don’t have to like that Heaven are pricks or that you ended up with our lot but you’re _smart_ Aziraphale. And you _know_ them like I do. You can do better.”

Aziraphale tried his best not to laugh but couldn’t help being a little amused by the sudden mental image of Crowley chasing his own tail and being upset with the outcome either way.

“And wipe that smirk off your face.”

“As though I could help it, darling.” Aziraphale tutted, heart giving a warm little flutter. “Come then, what did the great demon Crowley do that’s so original and aware of humans that I must, as they say, step my game up.”

“Alright, she won’t be after us ‘till she figures out what’s going on anyway.” Crowley acquiesced, flagging down a carriage, whose driver was very surprised to find he was inDomrémy and yes that was definitely his lord getting in….probably, and hopping in with an amphorae of wine in hand. “You remember though, we’re demons, we’re the bad guys. And you asked.”

Aziraphale put a hand carefully on Crowley’s knee and gave it a squeeze before taking the bench opposite. The way Crowley’s face had gone carefully blank at the simple touch let Aziraphale know all he needed to about how to get the information he wanted without Crowley shutting down otherwise.

“I didn’t lie to her. Which, for one, is so _not_ what an angel expects that she’ll be tearing her feathers out trying to find the trick.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile fondly, remembering the time when it would have been him insisting the same, all the while knowing that Crowley was surprisingly straight forward once you could get him to actually say something and not obfuscate it all. He motioned for the other to continue.

“I made sure she’ll keep her looks. Like I said.”

Aziraphale made to open his mouth but Crowley held a hand up to quiet him before taking a swig directly out of the amphorae and passing it to Aziraphale. Who promptly miracled himself a glass. He _did_ have standards after all.

“You’re gonna need that. Look, I like the girl well enough, alright? Smart as anything, little bit of a bastard.” He smiled over to Aziraphale. “Too fucking young for the Upstairs to be sending her to a war but she _believes_ now and she’s going one way or the other. And now she’s a young, strong, _amazing_ woman heading into battlefields with men and claiming God chose her.” He frowned and snatched the amphorae back to take another swig, jaw set.

“Don’t need to tempt _her_. The bastards around her will show their natures quick enough. One way or another she’s gonna die, angel. And it’ll hurt the whole time. But she’ll keep her faith at least.” He almost spat out. “Not what the brass wants but it’s more souls overall so they’ll put up with it.”

Aziraphale found himself keeping very carefully still as he turned the words over in his head. He couldn’t deny the tremble of _something_ in him at the thought of abandoning her to that. But apparently being called by Her had put her in the position well before Crowley had intervened at all.

He considered the crossroads he was at and how quickly his chance to take control of the situation was going to go if he didn’t do _something_ soon. “You’re not even tempting them.”

“Oh I am, I’m just not giving them the direction. Then they do the work for me.” There was a flash of fangs that was as much grimace as goading grin.

“Choice always was rather your thing, you wily old serpent.” He tried a little lamely.

Aziraphale saw the muscle in Crowley’s jaw feather just slightly and was well aware that he had no idea what his footing was in this conversation. But still, wasn’t it just so _like_ him. To give them an out if they only refused to do anything about it. And to make sure that whatever came out of it was truly horrifying.

It was maybe a little alarming that the malice of it gave him a shiver which was far too warm. “If I have so much to learn about doing my job you’d best not be sending me off on my own again.” He reached out for the amphorae and felt himself relax a little when Crowley let him take it, even if he did give him a somewhat petulant hiss about it. He smiled warmly in response and reached out just enough to gently brush his fingers over Crowley’s wrist. “I want to stay here with you.”

Crowley determinedly did not meet his eye, instead focusing on spreading himself bonelessly across his side of the carriage. He paused midway through draping himself across the seat when he noted that Aziraphale, rather than politely averting his eyes as usual, was watching his body move with an intensity that made his stomach feel far too warm. Aziraphale’s eyes were impossibly dark over the glass that he held still to his lip, catching distractedly against the edge.

Crowley couldn’t help but wonder how stupid he was for being so against finally having the thing that he’d spent millennia tumbling towards and aching for. He’d just never wanted it by dragging Aziraphale down to his level is all.

“What the Heaven’s with that Shamsiel bollocks then?” He said instead of addressing any of the thoughts in his head.

“Oh, well, you know. Policy and all that. Don’t keep your old name after the Fall do you? Can’t even say my old name, dear boy. Considered Azazel for a little while, retain a little bit of the familiar.”

Crowley felt something of a chasm opening up in him at the words as he realised that of course, _of course_ , he didn’t have an angel’s name. “I’ve been sending all my fucking memos down with Aziraphale on them.” It wasn’t what he expected to say out of all the things that he was thinking, but just look at that slipping out on its own.

Aziraphale (Shamsiel? Really?) sipped at his drink and offered up a pleased little smile. “They probably think you’re lording it over me. Rubbing in what I had and can’t get back.”

Crowley, who’d been halfway through reclaiming the amphorae of wine, abruptly dropped it to the floor like he’d been struck. It hit with a disappointing crack rather than the full shatter that would have felt more fitting. His jaw hung loose for a moment before he finally seemed to come to himself. “ _Shit_. I- look, I completely… That’s not...”

The other smirked a little and Crowley saw something distinctly demonic in it that made him feel worse and better at the same time. “Please, dear boy, you don’t think there’s a reason I never told you the new name? No, I think I should like having a name that’s only yours. Perhaps less of the angel though, yes? I think I’m rather done with being compared to them now.” He reached out and softly patted Crowley’s hand.

Crowley made a slightly strangled noise in the back of his throat and snatched the amphorae up from the floor to take another deep, fortifying gulp.

**London – 1895**

Crowley had been asleep _far_ too long. Crowley had, in fact, been able to get away with a lot more sleep since Aziraphale took over reporting to his superiors and too long was relative when one existed across nearly all of time.

The important part of the consideration was that Crowley was _still_ asleep while Aziraphale needed him.

Granted he didn’t have quite the same urge to deny his own wants the same way that Crowley did sometimes and so he could also admit that the latter half of the century had started to get disappointing without Crowley there. Aziraphale had finally found himself in a time that suited him almost perfectly. The decadence, the music, the availability or literature and the proper makings of the English starting to look at cuisine with more flavour than a dash of salt. It was perfect. Almost.

Aziraphale sighed as he looked down at Crowley sprawled across their bed beneath the wonderful little fur that Aziraphale had picked up in Peru whilst Crowley was drinking himself into a stupor over how the English and Spanish seemed to be fighting it out over who could be the most inhuman. It would have been better with a certain other demon to share it all with. The boys at the hundred guineas club just didn’t match up.

He quickly slipped out of the majority of his clothes and slid into the bed next to Crowley before carefully rearranging the other to rest on his chest. Cold as Crowley was it always left a warmth in Aziraphale’s core wherever his weight rested.

Aziraphale lay there drinking in the sight and feel of the other for going on nine hours until he felt the worst of the frustration and anger ebb away from him. He had his fingers tangled up in the other’s hair, brushing it out with a familiarity that still left Aziraphale thankful to an entity that he couldn’t name. Certainly didn’t want to credit either Satan or God with being lucky enough for Crowley’s implicit trust in this way. For the privilege of having it for so long that it truly was familiar. Almost routine.

He smiled almost serenely to himself as he cleared his head just enough to start planning his next move.

Almost a day and a half passed before Aziraphale decided it was time to wake the great serpent in his bed. He’d long since decided on his course of action but there was just something so hypnotic about sitting and reading with Crowley wrapped around him that he hadn’t had the heart to bring the moment to a close. Unfortunately the others would be worrying about him before long, and no doubt Oscar was going spare.

“Crowley, if you’re quite done with your nap there’s some work to be done.” He gently massaged at the base of the other’s skull, applying just enough pressure to be too uncomfortable to sleep through. Hopefully, Crowley could be a little unpredictable with that.

He did finally rouse, however. His eyes were barely open long enough to take in that it was Aziraphale he was looking at before they softened into something gentle and _fond_ that was all the affirmation the ex-angel had ever needed about his place in the world.

“How long was I asleep?” He asked, yawning wide enough to dislocate his jaw even though his body likely didn’t need it. After all, the yawn gave credence to the languid stretch. The stretch gave Aziraphale the perfect excuse to take in every inch of the other like he didn’t already have it memorised. And everyone was left happy.

“Well it’s about 60 years since you last woke up and I didn’t want you to miss the entire century. Aside from which I have something I want to do that requires a complicit partner.”

“Oh for… You know I don’t like missing… Sleep’s good but for… Ack.” Crowley clenched his jaw in a way that he would vehemently deny was a pout as he tried to get himself out of the bed.

Aziraphale’s arm firmly trapping him against the other’s body made that entirely impossible. And honestly all it took was the feel of the muscle tightening for Crowley to grow obediently still anyway. “What are you plotting now then?”

“Well I was thinking I should like to do something _grossly indecent_ with you.”

“I- _what?!_ ” The other’s eyes were suddenly clear of all traces of sleep, beautiful gold bared to Aziraphale in what might have been a slightly panicked expression.

“Yes, you see. There’s this new law, frightfully restrictive, completely ridiculous. Blessed Christian states and all that. And they’re trialling my good friend Oscar. Well, I’ve a good mind to turn up to the trial and show them some true gross indecency. And I’ll need you for that, darling.”

“I… what is going _on_ you great Faustian thing?”

Aziraphale grinned for a moment in response in a way that thrilled Crowley with equal parts anticipation and respectful anxiety. Not fear, mind you, he’d never _fear_ Azirapahale. He just… knew that the other had really embraced his penchant for human thinking since being free of orders and caution was always advised.

“Well I’ve been making some friends since you’ve been neglecting-”

“Oi! You left me asleep, I’d have got up any time for you.”

“Regardless.” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. Crowley huffed but ceded the floor. “I’ve been making some friends and now they’ve gone and passed a law against anything that looks too homosexual if you squint at it the wrong way. At least that’s what they’re calling it. Gross indecency indeed...” He snorted, jaw set even as he played with Crowley’s hair, fingers needing something to do in their agitated state.

“And you want me to…?”

“We’re going to go to the trial and cause a bit of a fuss. In fact, I think I’m going to be holding your hand everywhere we go from now on. And you could do with being a little less particular about letting me kiss you in public. Only if you’re comfortable, of course.”

Crowley stared on dumbfounded and he was glad his body’s functions hadn’t awoken well enough to leave him blushing. He’d never live it down if anyone heard that he’d been left floundering and flushed by the suggestion of PDA. But Aziraphale was just so damned matter of fact about it. Like he’d never considered anything else.

“Well I… guess I could be persuaded.”

“Tempted.” Aziraphale grinned when Crowley rolled his eyes at him. Of course Aziraphale chose that moment to pull at his hair just firmly enough to force his head back. Crowley felt the barest hint of heat flare up inside as the muffled sound it dragged out of him was swallowed by Aziraphale’s lips.

“I’ve missed you.” Aziraphale whispered arm against his lips. “And I have so much to show you. So many new things. So much development.” The fire banking in Crowley’s gut immediately settled into a soft warmth through his bones at the excitement colouring Aziraphale’s tone.

He imagined that he would very much enjoy every second of Aziraphale dragging him through his favourite developments of the century.


	7. Lurking vs Swaggering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today he frowned and fidgeted with his sunglasses. “Hastur wants a meeting tonight. Like an actual, proper one. What the Heaven is that about? Not my quarterly review. Humans haven’t been getting up to anything obvious on their own. So what does he want me for?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this chapter doesn't get quite as far along in the timeline as I hoped it would so it feels a little bit like filler but I didn't want to wait too much longer before uploading again. Next update should get to Warlock and/or Adam :D  
> Thank you so much to everyone who's left kudos or comments.

Crowley was staring at him from the corner of the bookshop. This was not unusual. Crowley had a habit of hovering when there was a thing he determinedly didn’t want (desperately needed) to talk about. He also had a habit of lurking. It wasn’t quite at the same Olympic level as some demons but it was a very much appreciated when it made the humans who did feel the need to come in  ( looking to  _ buy _ his books,  the nerve) feel uncomfortable enough to leave again tout suite.

Crowley claimed that it was only to avoid being outdone by Aziraphale, who had slightly more sinister ways of getting rid of people that he didn’t like in his bookshop. It stretched at least, but possibly wasn’t limited, to nudging along a series of strategic assassinations among the London mobsters who worked within the Soho area.

Aziraphale had allowed Crowley to skulk for the majority of the afternoon without complaint but it was about time to close, for the second time as he’d closed at 3 to open up again at 6, and didn’t really want this to continue for the rest of the evening. After all, Crowley had seemed so pleased when he’d gone out early in the morning, a big temptation planned for the day. He insisted it had gone well but… well, there was something else there and he hated the thought of it lingering. They were meant to bring misery to other people, not themselves.

Aziraphale set down the Buggre Alle This Bible in the carefully protected misprints section before removing the gloves he had to use to handle them. There was still an odd, residual tackiness left behind like a build-up of cleaning chemicals that buzzed and tightened the skin. It was worth it to hold onto the things he enjoyed even if there were those occasional days where even looking at that section made the hollow part of him howl.

“How about I try cooking again tonight, oh great fiend?” He asked, a teasing lilt to his voice even if the smile was thin and his eyes were searching Crowley’s face nervously for a hint of what was underneath.

Crowley seemed to stir from his reverie, pulling back a little as though surprised to see the other so close. “Ngh, hm? Oh, if, er, zhhh what now?”

Aziraphale’s face blossomed into a smile he hadn’t had to hide for over half a millennium now as he reached up and gently cupped Crowley’s cheek. “Nothing dear, just a little joke at your expense I’m afraid. _Do_ let’s not worry about it, hmm?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow and snaked an arm around Aziraphale’s waist to pull him in close, pale fingers dancing over the dark blue of a smart waistcoat with a fond kind of familiarity. He couldn’t help enjoying the sensations of soft and warmth as they seeped into his body. “I always trust you.” He murmured back. Something in the positively devilish smile he got in return made Crowley feel that it was a mistake. Still, he always had trusted Aziraphale and always would.

“Ah, then you would like me to?” Aziraphale asked archly, though his smile was still warm as the hand on Crowley’s face shifted slowly, Aziraphale’s thumb moving to brush slowly, tenderly along his lower lip.

“Mmm?” Crowley was barely paying attention, chest tight and watching Aziraphale’s eyes and growing self-satisfied smile. That one was almost angelic. They always were smug bastards.

“Try my hand at cooking for us again.”

Crowley stepped back, low warning hiss in his throat. Aziraphale only looked delighted in response, which was annoying for a demon who prided himself on a certain degree of malice. “We’ve had thissss talk, demon.” He glowered, then stopped stock still, Adam’s apple bobbing dangerously.

Aziraphale took in a deep breath and tried for a soothing smile. It was one of these days then, where even the tentative joking he sometimes managed was too much for him. Even this many years later Aziraphale sometimes caught Crowley looking at him like he’d broken something precious. Sometimes he played it up, if only because it made the other demon more malicious, closer to true evil than inconvenience. That always made something thrum electric under Aziraphale’s skin. Most times, though, he tried to distract him away from the thought (more often than not with insistent kissing and the pressure of his body on the other).

Truthfully, though, every year of comfortable happiness made it easier to deal with. If anything it made him resentful of the fact that it had taken them so long to forcibly remove him from the host. He’d never belonged, never fit. He didn’t really fit in Hell either but he did in the life that he’d carved out with Crowley.

Crowley, who knew and accepted, even loved, his idiosyncrasies. Who still called it ‘proof that they had no taste and less sense’ that he’d been allowed to Fall at all.

“Come on then, explain the network thing to me again. I feel as though we could cause some real bother if we can replicate it in New York but I still don’t quite get all this new technology.”

By now Crowley was well used to Aziraphale’s style of temptation.  He’d feign ignorance about how it was done until Crowley gave up and offered to do it himself. Then he’d insist on coming along so that he could learn for next time. He would, of course, pay no attention at all to how it was done and go make sure an entire office bl o ck only had three bits of loo roll in every stall or whisper in some exec’s ear about the possibility of a sawdust diet  if only they could lobby for looser food safety laws . Then he’d just so happen to reveal that reservations had come up at some exclusive new open restaurant.

Usually he’d hide a smile and string along the conversation as long as he could before inevitably giving in. Aziraphale had always been too tempting for his own good.

Today he frowned and fidgeted with his sunglasses. “Hastur wants a meeting tonight. Like an actual, proper one. What the Heaven is that about? Not my quarterly review. Humans haven’t been getting up to anything obvious on their own. So what does he want _me_ for?”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully at this, shifting just enough onto the balls of his feet to kiss at the corner of Crowley’s eye, just against the glasses. “Well unless you want to start defying direct orders from Head Office I do suppose you’ll have to toddle along and _see_ what they’re playing at now. Would you like back up?”

Crowley shifted a little, almost a slither, as he considered. Wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference in the long run but it would be nice not to have to wait until he could drive back to Soho to complain about whatever was going on. Plus Aziraphale’s face when he drove them was always priceless. “Why not.” He shrugged with a practised smile that Crowley thought, incorrectly, was much better at hiding malevolent intentions than Aziraphale’s was.

Crowley did actually end up driving at a slightly more acceptable speed to the church where he was due to meet Duke Hastur and it was only partly to do with the fact that he just really didn’t want to get there at all.

Aziraphale was well aware of Crowley coiling in on himself like a threatened snake and spent the drive with an elbow resting nonchalantly on the back of his seat as he ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair, occasionally giving playful little tugs that had the other hissing in fake annoyance. The only time he didn’t have his fingers laced through Crowley’s hair was when he was speeding too much down a road or taking a bend particularly sharply and Aziraphale snatched his hands back to grip at the sides of his seat. Crowley was still too skittish of being _mushy_ out loud to say he enjoyed it, but Aziraphale’s touch did mostly keep his speed down to a steady 70 through the close knit village streets until the Bentley was roaring into the churchyard.

Crowley sauntered out of the car, all hips and posing. Aziraphale smiled to himself and got out only far enough to sit back against the hood of the Bentley, deciding to indulge himself in the vision of Crowley’s swagger and snark.

He’s so busy focusing on his love’s ridiculously endearing, not to mention barely passable, loyal demon façade that he misses most of what’s happening until Cowley visibly goes still. The demon is naturally an ever shifting ball of nervous energy and too mush spine and watching him go so rigid alerts Aziraphale immediately to something wrong.

“Why me?” There’s somehow a hiss in the words even without an S to be found.  


“‘They love you down there.’”There’s a slight sneer to Duke Hastur’s words that has Aziraphale ruffling his feathers in annoyance. “And what an opportunity. Ligur here would give his right arm to be you tonight.” He stares, blank eyed but expectantly, at Crowley, holding out something Aziraphale can’t quite make out in the flash of the light.  


He moves forward slowly until he can see the basket that’s being handed over to Crowley. The hellish handbasket.

“Yeah.” There was a vague hint of threat in Ligur’s voice, chameleon shifting to a deep red and his eyes following suit. It would have likely been a right arm he’d taken from someone else.

Hastur produces a clipboard and attached to it is an impressively short form for what is happening at this exact moment in time. He sneers at Crowley’s first signature. “Not Anthony J. Crowley. Your real name.” He almost spits, frog bloating in warning before the correct, demonic, sigil is signed.

Aziraphale aches to reach out a hand and press it to Crowley’s back, remind him that he’s not alone. But demons didn’t show that kind of affection, not even to each other, and he kept himself still by wringing his hands together fretfully.

But Crowley is despairing, dully repeating back the vaguest bits of sentences and Hastur and Ligur are watching him _too_ closely. “Well yes, indeed, you see what Crowley no doubt means is-”  


“Did I sssay you could speak for me, angel?” Crowley glowers at Aziraphale, the reaction well rehearsed and just enough to pull him out of the howling void that his world had turned into. “Lovely. Armageddon, end days, all that. Ready to go.” He looked at the basket, felt his throat constrict. “Already.”

“How exciting, The Plan already moving forward! Best get moving with things. Unpleasant travels.” Aziraphale waves nervously before trailing after Crowley who was walking back to the car like a paralysed snake trying to figure out how to move again. There’s a slight shudder when Ligur’s voice growls _Shamsiel_ in a brief dismissal.

By the time he gets into the car the basket has already been thrown haphazardly into the back seat. It’s all Aziraphale needs to know about how shaken Crowley is. Angel of the Bottomless Pit or not, he’d never been so dismissive with a child before. He doesn’t dare do anything where the dukes might still be lurking though and keeps himself carefully still and quiet as Crowley speeds out of the graveyard and towards the ring-road.

They’re barely onto a proper A road when Crowley starts cursing his luck and is promptly, completely, cut off by the voice of Satan through the car radio, initially heaping on praise for the M25 which causes Aziraphale’s heart to buzz with a kind of pride despite, well, Satan.

_If anything goes wrong, then even those involved will suffer greatly. Even you, Crowley. ESPECIALLY_ _you. And it isn’t even you we would need to torture for that suffering, is it darling?_

It was the middle of the night and Crowley had a habit of driving with no lights on and still Aziraphale could see the other’s face blanching. He tentatively reached out a hand that Crowley flinched away from like he might be burned, a low snarl under his breath.

_Your instructions, Crowley._

The serpent went slack in his seat, mouth slightly falling open as smoke filled the air around him and seeped in through mouth and nostrils. Aziraphale quickly pressed at Crowley’s glasses to bring them back over his eyes as completely as possible. He couldn’t stand the thought of him coming to exposed like that.

There’s a heart pounding moment when Aziraphale has to take the wheel to keep them properly on the road and not directly in the pack of a lorry but Crowley mercifully comes back to himself fairly quickly. He barely looks at Aziraphale as he sets his mouth into a grim line and presses harder onto the accelerator. “Better hold onto something angel.” He mutters, something thick and worried in his voice as he speeds them towards the ‘official’ birthplace of the Antichrist.


	8. A devil on both shoulders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay, so the Antichrist is here now, too late to do anything about that. But the influencing, the making sure he grows up properly evil, that’s part of our job as the ground agents. And if some good influences happened to creep in there, ones that could be attributed to a Heavenly agent when the bosses ask, well it might help balance out the scales.”  
> “So you want to influence him both ways? And blame the good on an agent of Heaven we can’t name because they don’t exist?”
> 
> In which Crowley and Aziraphale drink heavily and figure out how to prevent the Antichrist becoming evil enough to trigger an apocalypse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I:  
> a) Have no sense of consistent chapter length  
> b) have no concept of how far forward I'm going to get the plot in a single chapter.  
> I somehow have still not got to anything with the kids but I've at least started chapter 9 and can confirm Dowlings.  
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments, I owe you all of my motivation.

They were barely back at the book shop before Crowley was snaking his way through the books and to the wine rack, pulling out the best vintages they had. (Best, in this case, was a little more subjective than usual given that Crowley’s idea of wine’s quality was also balanced against the memories it evoked.) Aziraphale clicked his tongue a little as he locked up behind him and made sure the Bentley had also made itself secure.

“You know, darling, I can’t quite tell if we’re celebrating or commiserating. But either way we still have a number of years before the end times and I’d quite like to ensure that we don’t indulge in the good ones so often that they stop being special.” He admonished.

Crowley made a concentrated effort to blink in disbelief, glasses sliding down his nose as he looked at Aziraphale with a slightly slack jaw and two glasses dangling precariously from his fingers. “Stop being… You know the whole blasted world’s ending, right?”

Aziraphale sighed at this, hands gripped together tightly as he sat down, careful to keep his eyes locked with the other’s. “And we have a few years about it yet, dear boy. Best to enjoy as much of it as we can but I don’t want them to be less special.”

Crowley closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. He’d pray for strength but he knew no one listened these days. “Just… Just stop complaining and enjoy it. It’ll never be less special if it’s with you anyway.” He frowned, still tense and anxious and yearning for the gentle haze of alcohol to make all this easier to bear.

Careful hands took the wine glasses from Crowley and set them on the side before Aziraphale had him wrapped in his arms, warm lips against him stretched in a grin that the other demon was making no attempt to hide.

Crowley dithered briefly. He really did need a drink right now, but there was very little that compared to being drunk on Aziraphale’s fierce, consuming love. He quickly gave in with a soft sigh, hand winding around the back of Aziraphale’s neck to thread through and tease the hair at the nape of his neck. It did do a little to calm the anxious energy that had been building through him since being handed a basket by some decidedly un-stork-like demons.

“There we go.” Aziraphale murmured against his lips, pulling back only far enough for Crowley to catch the terribly gentle, somehow still smug, look in his eyes before he pressed more kisses along Crowley’s lips and jaw. Aziraphale’s hold tightened a little, a comforting pressure that by now felt an awful lot like home.

“Still could do with a drink.” He couldn’t help but mutter, but there was no true complaint to it. He was content with this. It just didn’t completely drown out the sense of everything being put on a timer, suddenly, towards an end that Crowley didn’t want to see but that was going to continue marching towards them all regardless.

“Yes I suppose. But you’re not going far from me.” Crowley huffed a laugh at the demanding tone, but really it was hard to tell what else to expect from his fussy love.

He acquiesced, gently pushing Aziraphale onto the couch and all but curling on top of him as the other picked a bottle at random. An Armagnac from 1941 that tasted like the high of working together on anti-intelligence, the trepidation of how small a dent it was making to the suffering in Europe and held the blissful ignorance of the changes that would come in September.

Crowley’s stomach turned, thinking of the world boiling and burning, everyone gone. He blindly groped for another bottle and left the ‘41 to Aziraphale, trying to ignore the pit that had opened up inside of him.

A grand cru from 1984 that brought a smile to his lips. It was the year he’d introduced Aziraphale to Freddie after much cajoling and promises that his dear friends in the queer scene would be awash with jealousy about it after _that_ music video came out. Not to mention the other had wanted to keep one very good bottle from that year, if just for Orwell’s book.

They were a good few hours in when Aziraphale found himself looking down at Crowley with the kind of deep, pensive thoughtfulness that only drunkenness could bring. The dim lighting in the shop gave the serpent a softness to all of his usual edges and his eyes were bright and alive as he rambled about how the crocodiles never asked for this after surviving so much already.

He could feel his own answering smile at his contradictory demon. Work to bring it about, work for the ideals of evil, but now on the edge of it too full of the brilliance and brightness he’d seen in humanity. Aziraphale felt it too. Of course he did, the fleeting nature of their lives brought humans to such struggle to make the most of everything and had brought about all but his most loved thing on earth.

But that was the sticking point, the one who meant the most to him was here and real and would be completely unaffected by boiling seas and stars falling when the end times came. The end of humanity would be terrible, would leave a gap in the future where innovation and complexity would have been. But there would still be Crowley. And it was Her plan, after all, to kill the lot of them off and make a war of it. Maybe they would get more then they bargained for at the end of it.

“Well maybe it’s for the best after all? Who cares who wins or loses? Maybe our side should just have the opportunity to take up our grievances with them regardless.” There was something dark in Aziraphale’s tone. It made the wood in the old bookshop creak ominously and reminded Crowley that if the other had Fallen during the war he would have probably gutted his way up Hell’s ranks as ruthlessly as any Duke. It was dangerous to let him get like this.

“Mmm but at the end of it no more humans.” Crowley frowned, worrying at the stem of his glass.

“Yeah… Yes there is that. I’ll miss it all, of course, but there’ll still be you darling.”

The way he shrugged it off, the way it was with him at the forefront, made Crowley gulp back a knot of emotions he couldn’t name. “And even if we win, and we’re not all cast into a lake of holy water while the smug bastards sing the worst battle chorus in existence, we’re stuck with Hell’s idea of the world for… for eternity. No bistros, no concerts, no new novels.”

“Mmm… You do have a way of making it _sound_ bad.” Aziraphale looked into his glass a little forlorn.

“Because it _is_ ang-de- ugh. Mine. You. Whatever. It just is. It’s a true thing. They’re so fun and we get new ways of messing with them every year. Can you imagine nothing new ever? Sitting in the sulphur pits with torture and paperwork for the rest of _forever_ because none of the rest of them can think for themselves?”

Aziraphale barely heard the last of the obvious temptation after _mine_ , the slightest wiggle of giddy pleasure as he ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair. All this time showing Crowley that they were at the same speed now and Crowley still sometimes tripped over the smallest of gestures or claims. And it always left Aziraphale aglow, a mix of smug and wanting to do anything to reward the other demon for being open and reaching out. He tended to wonder if it was the same reason Crowley had always been so fond of giving into his whims while making a show of how put out he was with it.

Aziraphale didn’t have a reason to pretend to be put out, though, so he simply continued to run his hands back through Crowley’s long hair until he reached the base of his skull, applying careful pressure in gentle strokes until his eyes fluttered closed. “I see your point, my dear heart. You know I’ll help you this time. No more relying on orders. Whatever you need, Crowley, but what do you suggest we actually _do_? We can hardly really start working against Armageddon.”

Crowley hummed absently, foot tapping an errant rhythm where it was slung over the back of the couch. Aziraphale let out an impatient huff of breath despite his smile and curled fingers into hair, tugging just enough to force Crowley to tilt his head up to face him properly, if upside down. And indeed Crowley’s eyes did snap open as a low groan slipped through his lips.

Aziraphale tried to dial down how smug that made him feel but he knew he was barely biting down at his lips enough to not show teeth. “Your suggestion?”

Crowley gulped reflexively as he tried to start thinking again. He brought up the glass to his lips, glad of half a second to think and the relief of the liquid against his lips as he took a couple of deep gulps. “Well, honestly, working against the apola- acopo- end of the world was just about it. Disobedience is what we do, isn’t it fiend?”

The grin was a little thinner than it might be, Satan’s words still in his head. But all Crowley could think about was his Aziraphale consigned either to a brutal death by angel or to an actual eternity of having to torture the souls of the damned when there was no more tempting to be done. With all the meddling he could muster Aziraphale had made perhaps a grand total of five trips back to Hell in the 650 years since he’d Fallen and Crowley wasn’t going to let that eternity be his sweet bastard’s reality.

“Well, broadly, yes...” Aziraphale looked uncertain, lips pursed in a worried line. “Still, I can’t imagine anyone being thrilled at that as an answer when we royally bugger things up.”

“But, but also.” Crowley finally flipped himself over so that he was straddling Aziraphale and was finally the right way around. He smiled when the other’s eyes flickered down to where Crowley’s things pressed against his, and then back up to his lips. “Also, it’s one of their upstairs ideas too, right? Great plan, war to end all wars” again that sour taste in his mouth “and then Heaven forever. This is basically Her manipulating _our boss_ into playing her game. Doing exactly what She’s planning on, and what better to be truly demonic than flipping the bird to the Great Plan? Bet Michael’s even gonna be down here more often again. Get their wings dirty with the front line work.”

“I suppose… That does rather make sense.” Aziraphale mused, before smiling and leaning in, the soft brush of their lips together as he brought a hand up to stroke Crowley’s cheek. “I do so love the way your devious mind works. Consider me on board, but what did you have in mind.”

And here Crowley grinned and pulled away, sitting back on his haunches. For just a moment Aziraphale had dizzying visions of the other bringing out an overhead projector to show off an image of the Odegra, or a comic sans power point presentation running through the concept of planned obsolescence. He knew whatever it was would be mad and brilliant and completely, beautifully mundane by turns.

“Okay, so the Antichrist is here now, too late to do anything about that. But the influencing, the making sure he grows up properly evil, that’s part of our job as the ground agents. And if some good influences happened to creep in there, ones that could be attributed to a Heavenly agent when the bosses ask, well it might help balance out the scales.”

“So you want to influence him both ways? And blame the good on an agent of Heaven we can’t name because they don’t exist?”

Crowley sighed and rolled his eyes, none of the wind taken from his sails despite Aziraphale’s less than enthusiastic response. “We’ve got a couple of years before we need to be any influence at all. We can check who hovers around to keep and eye on Her plan and blame it on them. Hell might even warn us themselves if they find out first.” Crowley didn’t intend to hold out hope for that one though. Mostly Hell kept out of their way as long as the vaguely correct paperwork got sent down to Dagon every so often. And somehow it was Aziraphale that had taken the task on with his hellishly outdated computer.

Aziraphale, not enamoured of searching out old colleagues like the goth child being asked to search out great aunt Carol for Christmas dinner, frowned but decided he couldn’t really fight it until he had a better idea of his own. Surely that couldn’t be hard to come across. Once he was sober, at least.

Instead Aziraphale took a sip of his wine and gently guided Crowley back down to laying on top of him, happy for the returned contact. “Well we’ll see when the time comes then, won’t we?” He smiled. “And I’m certain you’ll enjoy instilling some good into the child, you always did have that nice streak.” He teased, ensuring that he was innocently looking away when Crowley’s face snapped up to fix his gaze on him, a hiss of annoyance at the back of his throat.

“Not a chance in Heaven. You’re the one doing the nicey stuff, _angel_.” It was perhaps the first time Crowley had used the pet name and truly sounded like he was making it an insult.

“I’m as much a demon as you are, my dear. I’m certainly no _more_ nice, at least.” Aziraphale sniffed, fussing slightly at the hem of Crowley’s shirt.

The serpent narrowed his eyes, determined not to let his ruthless love pull his attention away with dirty tricks like that. It didn’t mean he could suppress the automatic shiver as Aziraphale’s fingers brushed against his bare skin. “Please,” he was quite proud when his voice didn’t shiver on the word “you barely are. You were an angel for a lot longer than I was.”

“Well that might mean I’m worse.” Aziraphale declared it haughtily with barely a pause, a slight smile dancing at the edge of his lips that told Crowley he’d likely been thinking of this one for a while. _Played for suckers_ came to mind. “I Fell when it wasn’t in fashion. You just fell in with the wrong crowd and sauntered off downstairs.”

Crowley flinched back just a little and Aziraphale wondered if he’d crossed a line he hadn’t seen, if this was about to become a real argument. Instead Crowley abandoned his glass in favour of saluting Aziraphale with the entire damn bottle. “You’ve never been in fashion your entire life. That’s not angelic, it’s just old fashioned.”

“Well I caught up eventually.” He protested. “And to help me _keep_ catching up _I’m_ the one who’s going to be the bad influence on the Antichrist.”

“Well, Ligur said it himself, my starring role.”

Aziraphale shook his head a little, patting Crowley on the arm like a parent trying to let their child down gently. “Well you’re hardly Burbage.”

“Oi, sod off. Do a good enough job of acting like I care what hell thinks.”

Aziraphale, who had just recently seen his attempt at pretending he enjoyed the thought of Armageddon, and who also knew without a doubt that Crowley cared very much, at all times, for far too many things just kept silent and raised an eyebrow. Crowley caved first.

“Well why don’t we both do both then?” Crowley suggested, flipping onto his back once again and accidentally, or at least he’d claim it was accidental, catching Aziraphale gracelessly with an elbow.

“That would just confuse the poor boy.” He dismissed with a wave of his hand before going back to petting Crowley.

The other snorted and wiggled until he got into a decent enough position to take up all the warmth he could. It helped that he could hear Aziraphale’s breath catch a little as he settled. “He’s got a bullshit talking diplomat for a father. Not to mention the American.” He grinned up at Aziraphale with a hint of fangs at the chiding look he got in return. “He’s going to spend his life confused.”

Aziraphale, for all of his complaints, had to concede to at least that point. He also, quite unfortunately, forgot to come up with a better idea than blaming the good influences on an earthbound angel in time for their entrance into young Warlock Dowling’s life.

After all, Crowley had initially planned on having a few years to plan their moves, certain that nothing would be necessary in the first few years before the child was able to take up the knowledge of the good and evil things they would be teaching him. Unfortunately, it was barely a week later that Thaddeus Dowling’s secretary placed an advertisement for a nanny.

Aziraphale called it some kind of dark kismet (he knew what a fuss Crowley would kick up if he mentioned ineffability and how things always played out for them). Crowley called it meddling. Either way they wouldn’t have that sort of opportunity to fit seamlessly into the boy’s life in quite the same way again.

So Crowley requisitioned a small hell hound to get the boy used to the presence of an occult pet and prepared herself for the work ahead. When she got ready for her interview she had to work hard not to flush at Aziraphale’s _fussing_ over her. Like a proud husband, with a smile far too angelic for his new nature as he gushed about how good she had always been with children and how the Antichrist couldn’t have personally requested better. In fact, Aziraphale spent so long praising and fussing over Crowley/Ashtoreth that she completely forgot to ask what Aziraphale had come up with for his own cover.

Ashtoreth would later have to concede the point that Aziraphale was much more demonic than she gave him credit for but that it hardly mattered as much if all of that effort was spent in making a fellow demon’s life harder.


	9. The nanny and the gardener

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It brought no small amount of joy to brother Sam to watch nanny struggle with maintaining her composure as she huffily settled the flower into a better position. Nanny would frequently remind him that demons were not supposed to act so smitten and that co-workers were certainly not supposed to fraternise so openly.
> 
> Brother Sam always had once excuse or another that left Ashtoreth without recourse. Why my dear, it’s perfectly demonic, that flower I gave you last week broke no less than three relationships up. We are apparently referred to in a thing they call a group chat. Ashtoreth would purse her lips and narrow her eyes, occasionally tilting the gardener’s head up with a manicured nail to stare imperiously into his eyes in a way that made his confused, unnecessary heart skip a beat and set the rumour mill working harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thank you so much to everyone reading and leaving kudos and comments.  
> Slightly shorter one than it should be as I didn't want to wait much longer to update and there seemed to be a pause for breath. Warlock's only a wee baby in this one but they do grow up so fast. Also catch Aziraphale with his priorities well and truly in order.

Crowley had thought that the first few years of life would provide them little opportunity to sway the boy one way or another. That assertion would prove to be so untrue that it was almost laughable. Harriet spent most of her time with the child using him as leverage against her husband and Thaddeus was gone on business so much of the time that neither they nor Warlock were entirely certain what the man even looked like. (Ashtoreth believed she knew what Thaddeus looked like, having briefly spoken to him outside of Tadfield manor. This, too, would turn out to be a laughably untrue belief.)

As it was Warlock spent the more of his first few years of life with his nanny than his mother and that gave the demon plenty of influence on the direction of his thinking. That and the gardener, who nanny had taken such an immediate shine to that several of the other household staff watched the pair dewy-eyed and talking about finding their own instant connections that way.

Aziraphale, for his part, revelled in the increased excuses to indulge himself: in the food that the Dowlings’ private chef made, the rather comfortably appointed servants’ quarters and, most importantly, in nanny Ashtoreth herself.

Aziraphale had spent millennia in love and pining, terrified of the possible repercussions against the demon if he dared bridge the gap that Crowley always reached so eagerly across. Crowley was the wrong choice that he had always wanted. Crowley had been one of the best things about the earth but had to be kept at arms length because no matter that he was good, he wasn’t Good in the right way and Aziraphale had wanted more for Heaven to be right than for Crowley to be his. (Perhaps only because holding to that belief was the option that took more work and letting himself want Crowley had always been so easy as to almost feel like a trap). Then when he had Fallen, Crowley had started to hold back from him, spending those first few hundred years acting as though Heaven might take Aziraphale back if he just somehow denied the fall loudly and strongly enough. It was a rush, then, to find that nanny Ashtoreth was firm and sure of herself and had no qualms in reaching for whatever she wanted, including the Dowlings’ new gardener (though this was always at professionally appropriate times, of course).

With all of their shared history and the 650 years or so he’d had to get used to being able to be openly by Crowley’s side Aziraphale had thought that he felt love as strongly and deeply as any being could. Had thought that his feelings for Crowley would always be there as constant as the north star in the night sky. This was, again, a belief that was untrue and that would be unwound within the first years of Warlock’s life. Even though Aziraphale was no longer a being of pure love it turned out that there was always some way for his love for Crowley to expand every time he found something new in the other.

Aziraphale chose the name Brother Sam after his demonic name (Ashtoreth had had to practically beg him not to use Gamgee as a surname, assuring the other that it was neither as tongue in cheek nor as clever as he insisted). There was only so much second hand embarrassment one demon could deal with and Aziraphale had no shame. It wasn’t necessarily the worst trait in a demon but it did make him impossible to deal with sometimes. Sam, not the best gardener but well versed in demonic miracles, spent a lot of time watching nanny carefully from wherever he was situated at the time. He spent a lot of the earliest months full of something so pure that at times he was worried that it would burst out of him or completely dissolve his hellish corporation.

Sam watched nanny Ashtoreth walk around the garden with a sneer at the plants and gentle arms cradling Warlock and felt the ache in his heart grow, impossibly, stronger. This was a child that Ashtoreth had not wanted to exist: The Antichrist, the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness. The infant was a time bomb ticking down to the end of everything that they held dear in the world and Ashtoreth, despite all of Crowley’s complaints and posturing, held him like the most precious thing in the world.

There were times that Sam would seek her out to find Ashtoreth staring down at the infant with the softest look on her face and the swell of the love he felt would take over him so completely that he couldn’t even move for a few seconds, throat often constricting as it tried desperately to keep the force of the emotion held inside his too-small body. To see the little one reach back for her face, completely unaware that anyone else might exist in the world, Sam felt a small degree of kinship despite not being as good with children himself.

There were days that nanny Ashtoreth would come out into the garden solely so that she could complain that Brother Sam was being too lenient with the flowers, though she always kept careful hands on the child who was still shakily trying to walk. Warlock took stilted half steps with nanny’s hands holding both of his carefully and looked up at them with eyes that were far too knowing. Sam supposed it was the whole Antichrist thing. More than once Sam quieted her by snipping the nearest flower and gently tucking it into her curls with a soft “You can’t blame them for not living up to you, my dear.”

It brought no small amount of joy to brother Sam to watch nanny struggle with maintaining her composure as she huffily settled the flower into a better position. Nanny would frequently remind him that demons were _not_ supposed to act so smitten and that co-workers were certainly not supposed to fraternise so openly.

Brother Sam always had once excuse or another that left Ashtoreth without recourse.  _Why my dear,_ _it’s perfectly demonic,_ _that flower I gave you last week broke no less than three relationships up. We are apparently referred to in a thing they call a group chat._ Ashtoreth would purse her lips and narrow her eyes, occasionally tilting the gardener’s head up with a manicured nail to stare imperiously into his eyes in a way that made his confused, unnecessary heart skip a beat and set the rumour mill working harder.

They were also both more than aware that they had been found by Heaven’s forces. Just weeks before Warlock’s first birthday Sam and Ashtoreth were  in the kitchen overnight sharing a decent bottle of wine, a very rich slice of cheescake and a few lingering touches when Rover stepped up from where he had settled between them and growled low, a noise with too many voices that rumbled like the roar of hellfire.

Ashtoreth was sober quicker than Sam had ever seen that miracle performed before and was heading for the door with a determined gate. “Get to Warlock, now.”  Her own growl was as low as Rover’s as the dog’s bright red eyes flashed and it disappeared in a blink, leaving only the scent of sulphur.

Sam dithered for just a moment, uncertain about whether he should be helping Ashtoreth or holding the line back with Warlock. He was the better trained of the two of them but Ashtoreth actually looked ready to fight and Sam truly hated the whole business  if he could find another way around it.

W hen Ashtoreth jerked her head towards the doorway and told him to go up to Warlock too Sam’s mind was made up for him. Ashtoreth was still Crowley and that meant he was being protected from something. Whatever it was he didn’t want her to be alone out there with it.

He followed a couple of seconds behind  as nanny stomped into the garden in her sensible heels, an aura about her that made the bodyguards pause on a good day but that likely would have little effect on an angel of the Lord. She strode unerringly along a path of her own devising: Crowley had almost 5 and a half millennia of learning the feeling of an angel close and of following that feeling with increasing precision. Granted, there hadn’t been as much use for it recently and it no longer came with the same illicit thrill that it used to.

In fact, when Ashtoreth finally came face to face with the angelic presence she already had a hiss wrapped around her words. “Michael. You think you can get to my massster’s child you’ll go through me.”

Sam smiled to himself from where he stood a few meters behind the nanny, knowing that it was true and that it was absolutely nothing to do with the child being the Antichrist. If anything that likely counted against poor Warlock but Crowley was a terrible demon and she couldn’t help but get attached to small, sticky, loud children. Now she cared for Warlock there’d be no unwrapping the roots from her heart.  _I don’t have a heart_ . Sam smiled wider at the imagined comeback even as Michael swept impassive eyes across him too.

He held up a hand in a cautious wave and the archangel let out a huff of air too dignified to be a snort. “How did you know I was here, demon?”

“We have our ways.” Ashtoreth smiled thinly. “Now, if you don’t mind it’s well beyond the wee one’s bedtime and there’s no visitors to the estate after hours.”

“Regardless.” Michael’s eyes swept the grounds as though nanny Ashtoreth hadn’t spoken at all. “I have no need to speak with the likes of you. Know that Heaven will be watching. The end comes, demons, and the end of your kind with it. Do try not to mess this up. You always had trouble with following orders properly Shamsiel.” His lip curled in distaste even as Ashtoreth whipped around to glare at Sam, glasses falling down just enough to pin him down with the heat of his stare.

“Yes… Uh, quite.” Sam nodded with a dry gulp as something squirmed low in his stomach at Ashtoreth’s obvious anger. “Certain we’re going to beat you all anyway but if you’re only here to sight see best you be off on your way now. Terribly busy here with all our wiles. Certain Gabriel will be wanting a report and all that. See you around some time.” Sam rambled as he moved forward and grasped Ashtoreth’s hand, leading her back towards the house with barely a glance up at the ethereal being.

“What the Heaven are you playing at?” Ashtoreth fought briefly to turn around and aim a low hiss at Michael as the angel floated, baffled and perhaps slightly offended, above the hydrangeas. She didn’t fight too hard though. Sam’s grip was firm and his gaze sure as he pulled her back to the house and the need to continue playing his role and put Sam back in his place was already overcoming the need to threaten the archangel. Aside from which there was always a chance Warlock would wake up and the poor bairn was absolutely terrified of Rover.

M ichael watched their locked hands as they retreated, shaking his head in disappointment. How easily a principality had been moved to Fall for a mere demon. Either way this wouldn’t be the last they would hear of him, he needed to make sure that the Great Plan went off perfectly and progress needed monitoring.

Once they were in the relative privacy of the kitchen Ashtoreth tried to snatch her hand back again only to find herself pulled into Sam’s arms, the heavy press of them as he drew her in for a kiss  both a comfort and an annoyance. She brought up her free hand and pressed a finger against Sam’s lips with a raised brow. “We don’t get rewarded for taking without asking, brother Sam. And aside from that we have an angel to blame now. It’s time to really start working.”

Sam couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on his lips as he dropped his arms away obediently. The nanny even got a slight wiggle of excitement when she turned back at the door and cocked her hips with a hand resting on them expectantly. “Coming?”

“Follow you anywhere, my dear girl.” He assured her as they went to retrieve the hell hound in training and plan for little Warlock’s upbringing with more positive influences now they had someone to blame.


	10. Raising Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley took off down the hallways at a pace that left Aziraphale in no question that he was more agitated than he usually was in Hell. The second they were out on the streets of London Crowley rounded on him, jaw tight enough that Aziraphale just knew his eyes would be entirely golden underneath.
> 
> “Torturing animals, angel? Really?”
> 
> “Well it wasn’t untrue, my dear boy. It should keep them content for a little while at least.”
> 
> Crowley rolled his head back and groaned. “Yeah, and they’ll expect it to get worse as he grows up. We’re trying to stop that, remember?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's left kudos or comments. As always it's so motivating to know I'm not only yelling into the void but also at strangers on the internet.
> 
> There's a brief but pretty graphic discussion of killing a butterfly in this chapter. It's not pleasant and might want to be skipped over for the squeamich but it's only about two lines.
> 
> The song used is a slightly tweaked version of Mordred's Lullaby by Heather Dale.
> 
> The next chapter will include the attempts at influence towards good and another visit from the archangel.

Ashtoreth and Sam both did their best to do a decent bit of good to balance out the evil and, by and large, they congratulated themselves on measure of success. Of course both of them had wildly different ways of approaching how to instil both good and evil into the Antichrist.

Nanny Ashtoreth’s ideas (perhaps surprisingly) came from duty rather than the endless questioning that was so typical of Crowley. She taught Warlock the kinds of things that she was expected to as a demon. She also taught him the type of things that she thought Aziraphale would if he were still an angel and trying desperately to say what he _ought_ to because of Heaven.

Brother Sam taught Warlock good and evil in an equal number of truths. He used the words that he knew Ashtoreth would want to say if she were free to, the words that came from the heart of her where children were involved. He taught him the harsher realities of the world without the softness that adults often wrapped it up in.

As soon as Warlock was deemed old enough to understand (which was very young, so far as Sam was concerned, but Ashtoreth _was_ the one who was good with children, so he let it slide) nanny Ashtoreth was winding the strangest platitudes into his nursery rhymes and lullabies.

When the child was  barely two Sam had the good fortune of managing to successfully sneak up to the nursery, which was usually more miracles than it was worth, intending to ask nanny to share a nightcap with him.  As he approached the door at the end of the corridor it was open just a crack and was surprised to find itself open wide enough for a nosey demon to see through comfortably by the time Sam got to it.

“ _Not_ tired, nanny.” An imperious little voice declared from inside.

Sam smiled to himself fondly and rested against the door jamb, careful that none of the soil from his dark blue overalls dare get itself onto the pristine floor or walls.

Nanny was carefully carrying Warlock to bed regardless of the words and the squirming and a single little fist that struck high on her cheek and almost dislodged the glasses. Sam winced just slightly but Ashtoreth never flinched as she settled warlock into the cot. “One day all the force s of the world will cower before you but while I’m here bed time is 7pm sharp and that is when you will  _go_ to bed, young Warlock.”

“No!” Warlock declared, his new favourite word.

Sam smiled  nervously in spite of himself even as Ashtoreth set her glasses right, ignoring Warlock’s attempts to climb out of his bed. She had assured  Sam that this was normal behaviour for a toddler but honestly it looked to  him as though they weren’t doing quite enough to  curtail his Infernal nature.  He worried at the little golden buttons of his overalls as Warlock’s refusal started to build towards a full tantrum.

“If you insist, Warlock, that you are not tired” she brushed over all this in clipped tones that delighted Sam more than they should “I will offer you a deal.”

Warlock narrowed his little eyes at her with careful consideration of the gravity of the situation. “Not tired.” He repeated again seriously, the threat of tantrum momentarily forgotten.

Ashtoreth nodded. “Quite so. In which case, I suggest we have your lullaby and if you’re still awake at the end of it you shall be free to stay up just as long as you like.”

If he didn’t know better Sam would have thought there was a hint of temptation to the words, but all of that was rather pointless to the Antichrist. At least he thought so. Crowley had explained previously that he would come into his powers slowly so perhaps that sort of thing would work while he was still young. After all, no matter the form, Crowley was  _always_ temptation incarnate.

Eventually Warlock nodded and dropped himself to sit on the bed, glaring up at his nanny with a clear challenge in his eyes. “’ gree.”

Nanny Ashtoreth’s lips curled up in a slow, almost triumphant smile and Sam felt the breath punched out of his lungs for a moment as she picked up  Mr Fuzzy and pressed him gently into Warlock’s arms. When Warlock was settled, sat up against his pillow and refusing to get under the covers, nanny started to sing. Her voice was low and melodious and Sam could half feel the tug of sleep himself as she wound the words with the insistent prickle of fatigue.

_Guileless child, I’ll shape your belief_

_And destruction will be what your Father bequeaths_

_So you’ll bend the whole world to mirror your grief_

_For you’ll always follow the voices beneath_

By the time the song lulled to silence Warlock was indeed asleep and the quilt was moved to tuck him in with nothing more than an elegant flick of her wrist.

In the doorway Sam coughed quietly, more a warning that he was there than anything. He could guess that Ashtoreth had known he was there for some time from the way that her eyebrow rose at him and her hands brushed nonexistent dust from the skirt as she rose. He offered up an arm for her to take, happily thrilled by the ease with which she accepted.

“My dear, what would you say to a fine chianti that no one will miss and a slice of chef’s marvellous angel food cake?”

“I would _say_ ” Ashteroth looked down on him with mostly put-on annoyance “that you certainly shouldn’t be wandering around near young Warlock’s room at this time of night. And that I could certainly do with the company of a fine gentleman.” She finally allowed with a tilt of her head.

\- - - - 

For the first time in a long time Hell were not accepting the regular paperwork as proper updates. Crowley supposed it was fair, given that this was the Actual Antichrist, but it didn’t make him any less sour about having to go down to give his reports. Especially given that it meant exposing Aziraphale to more of Hell than he’d like. Which was any of it, if he was honest.

The only thing that made it any better was that Hell was so bloody crowded Aziraphale ended up pressed against him the majority of the time and none of the others could say a blessed thing about it. Unfortunately there was no way he could get away with taking his hand the way he wanted to; to offer some actual reassurance about the cramped, dark, disgusting conditions around them.

For his part, Aziraphale seemed to take it all shockingly in stride. “How many demons do you think actually took a nap in a torture room before they had to make a sign about it?” He asked with an arched eyebrow that was more exasperation than horror.

Crowley decided not to answer that. He could imagine the types that would find it relaxing and didn’t want to think too hard about any of them. Instead he slipped his hands uncomfortably into his jeans as far as they could get and picked up his pace. For a moment he thought he felt the firm pressure of a hand at his back but it was gone as soon as it was there.

Before long he was in a meeting room with Beelzebub, Hastur and Dagon, explaining what they’d been doing over the quarter to influence the Infernal nature of the Antichrist. The place smelled worse than the terrible mildew scent that Aziraphale kept in his bookshop to discourage patrons and the walls were dripping a fluid that was far too viscous for anyone’s comfort. Luckily Hell did not care about the comfort of it’s employees.

“So you see, we’ve been moving forward pretty well with the old education. A for Arsenic, B for Brimstone, all of that. Charge of armies to destroy everyone that displeases you and wash fire over the face of the earth. Seems to enjoy the stories, even if he’s not too keen on the dog.” Crowley rambled off, ticking down the time in his head until he could get back to earth.

“Well that’s fine so far. We’ll just have to make sure his own hound is the best one we’ve got. Probably senses yours is a puppy barely worth destroying.” Hastur sneered. He’d been less than impressed with Crowley’s original choice as it was.

Crowley brushed off the jab and continued his report about just how truly evil and devious they were managing to be. “We’ve seen the archangel Michael hovering a few times. Not to mention all the latent _good_ it’s bringing into the area. It’s true it might be dampening the evil in the hound enough that he’s not satisfied with it.”

As he was talking Aziraphale leaned closer to Crowley, shifting up onto the balls of his feet until his lips were just about next to the other demon’s ear. His hands were still clasped formally behind him as though nothing were the matter when he whispered “Wahoo.” in an approving tone and slipped immediately back into his regular standing position.

Crowley, halfway through a sentence, almost choked on his own tongue and just barely managed to hold himself back from jabbing a sharp elbow into Aziraphale’s side. “not everything, now is it? Got to build him up to the murder.”

“Yes, indeed. And he’s already showing some promising progress about it.” Aziraphale smiled brightly. He’d been smiling the entire time that they were down here and Lord Beelzebub seemed to be the only one who wasn’t completely unnerved by it. “Indeed, I saw him torture a small animal to death just a few weeks ago. It’s how all the good -well, bad, I suppose- ones start out.”

Crowley was glad of the sunglasses hiding his eyes as he very slowly blinked at this bit of information. It was a bit of a stretch given everything else he’d reported back and well within the wheelhouse of ‘blatant lies that an angel can get away with but demons don’t just trust like that and you have to do better’.

Indeed, Beelzebub turned their attention to Aziraphale almost immediately in a way that made Crowley want to curl around him and hiss at the others in the room. “Tortured to death? What kind of animal?”

“Well, as part of some American style pass-time or other, we were catching butterflies in the garden. And when the Antichrist had one properly pinned down he quite slowly and carefully tore each of its wings off. Writhed for a good long while until it finally died.” Aziraphale pulled at the edges of his shirt cuffs, trying to sound removed from it, which was better than finding it distasteful since he couldn’t even try for pretending to be excited about it.

It at least had the intended effect. Beelzebub rolled their shoulders ever so slightly and there was the faintest sound of wings fluttering in discomfort somewhere on another plane. “Well then, it izzz best if you get back to it.” The lord of the flies nodded tersely, waving them off.

Crowley took off down the hallways at a pace that left Aziraphale in no question that he was more agitated than he usually was in Hell. The second they were out on the streets of London Crowley rounded on him, jaw tight enough that Aziraphale just knew his eyes would be entirely golden underneath.

“Torturing animals, angel? Really?”

“Well it wasn’t _un_ true, my dear boy. It should keep them content for a little while at least.”

Crowley rolled his head back and groaned. “Yeah, and they’ll expect it to get worse as he grows up. We’re trying to stop that, remember?”

Aziraphale had the decency to at least look a little sheepish. “I am sorry, darling. I’ll try to stick to the script next time. You were just so marvellous and I suppose I wanted to… Well, I don’t like them thinking less of you, even if we are doing our best to not truly do the work.”

The fight seemed to leech out of Crowley at the same rate that a slight blush crept up the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah. Still, it’s our day off. Lunch?”

“I’d love to. There’s this wonderful little bistro I’ve been meaning to pay a visit.” Aziraphale lit up, linking his arm in Crowley’s in the exact way the serpent wished he’d been able to in Hell. He let out a long sigh, the smile on his face decidedly not love struck in the least, thank you very much.

\- - - -

In the summer before Warlock turned five he approached Sam in the garden, eyes full of grim set determination. By now Warlock knew well that even nanny lied sometimes and that, if he absolutely had to have the truth, Brother Sam was the person to turn to. It also meant that he had to be ready to accept the truth, no matter how disturbing it might be.

Learning that Santa wasn’t there to care about his behaviour but that all the demons in Hell would be watching his evil deeds closely was a singularly frightening day for Warlock. Sam had been banned from speaking to the boy for a good month after he told his mother that it was demons, not elves, watching over him.

Sam understood the gravity that Warlock now put in his words and when he saw that look in his eyes he immediately stepped back from the rose bush he’d been lightly berating and made a show of dusting hands that had barely seen an ounce of dirt since he’d started working for the Dowlings.

“Young master Warlock. What brings you out here without your dear nanny?”

The boy scowled a little at that. “Don’t always have to be with her.”

“Well, no of course not. Though it is her job and I’m sure she’s keen to keep an eye on you in case of mischief. You’re out here to play all on your own then?” Sam asked, a slight glint in his unnaturally large pupils.

Warlock looked out over the vast garden dismissively and shook his head. “Nanny’s lying again. And I need to know a very im-portant thing.”

Sam frowned but gestured off to the side where a small viewing bench was sat in an area of the garden that no one ever actually came into. Warlock ignored it in favour of wandering off across the grounds, expecting the gardener to keep up with him.

“Now, what would Miss Ashtoreth be lying to you about? You know she only approves of you accusing _other people_ of things like that.” He smiled, almost conspiratorially.

“Nanny said I should break rules whenever I can. And she won’t say _why_ mum and dad got married.” He viciously ripped out a few helleborus flowers as they were passing.

“Hmmm yes, crushing all natural things, quite good.” He nodded absently at the ruined flowers despite how attached he was to the plants as he considered the strange point. “Well, when a man and woman love each other ver-”

“Well they don’t!”

“Pardon?”

“They don’t love each other. Everyone says mums and dads should but they don’t. So why did they bother? They don’t love each other, they don’t love me. So why?!” Warlock demanded, looking up at Sam with an anger that had him near tears.

S am paused and took in a deep breath of understanding. “Ah, I see.  I’m sorry, this is because of the business with your birthday isn’t it? They do love you in the best way they know how. They’re just not very good at it. ”  He  took to a knee, gently squeezing Warlock’s shoulder in reassurance.

Warlock only  slapped the hand off  him , eyes  still shining with the threat of tears and mouth twisted into a determined scowl. “But  _why_ ?”

Sam very suddenly wished for a pond and some ducks to feed. Something to take the edge out of what was an unpleasant conversation,  even if duck were much more wary of him now he had an animal aspect . “If you’re sure?” Warlock nodded. Sam knew that he likely wasn’t, but at the same time it was a good enough teaching opportunity. “Well, as I see it young master Warlock, the more power you have, the less things like love really matter to you. The easier it is to throw away the things that you should care for so that you can get more of what you want.”

Warlock shook his head, a little confused but clearly listening and a little calmer knowing that he was being taken seriously.

“Well, your father, he is _expected_ to be married to a nice woman from a certain type of family who acts a certain way in order to keep his job. Your dear mother, she likes the money and the comfort and what it makes other people think of her. This means they can both get what they want. It makes them look better to the right people and it gives them the power they want. There’s not room for love when you’re climbing your way to the top and crushing people under your heel.”

“But what about nanny?” Warlock asked, frowning back towards the house.

“Hmm? What about nanny?”

“You love her. If you had power to get would you just give up?”

Sam smiled warmly and shook his head, a wry twist to his lips. “You know I have a terrible feeling that  I might  have done just that .” He admitted,  lowering himself into an awkward crouch to meet the boy’s eyes. “You see  I had a very religious family, that’s how I know about all the demons.”

W arlock managed a small smile at the conspiratorial wink Sam gave him but didn’t look quite happy with where things were going.

“They have a lot of power and they hate people like Miss Ashtoreth. Now I loved her for a very long time and I never dared do anything because I wanted to keep my family happy. Everything I had to lose felt more important. I might never have done anything, but they sent me away because I didn’t fit in anyway. I think maybe without that I’d have always wanted to keep being certain in what I had. And I’m certain you’d prefer this lovely home and all you games and the power you could wield more than being a gardener who spends his days making soppy moon eyes, wouldn’t you?” He asked pointedly, knowing that Warlock was already as spoiled as any rich child his age and knew the value of getting what he wanted.

“Well… digging around in the dirt _is_ hard work.” Warlock seemed to agree, but the consideration in his eyes made Sam wonder if he’d truly encouraged the Antichrist towards evil or quite handily ballsed that one up.


	11. In which the Archangel Michael goes to Legoland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ashtoreth and Sam attempt to do more good than harm and Crowley twigs about something that should have been bothering him ever since he dropped off the Antichrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you for everyone who's left kudos and comments, you give me life and motivation.  
> As ever I have no sense of consistent updating schedule or chapter length but hopefully you enjoy. Next chapter will be an interesting start to proper divergence from the books.

Nanny Ashtoreth did do her part to encourage Warlock towards some good, despite Crowley’s initial protests that it shouldn’t be his job. For the most part it was less encouraging _him_ to be good and more encouraging him to see the good in the world and to ask questions about why people did things or why things were expected of him.

Nanny Ashtoreth loved questions.

So did small children. Endless reams of them, often to no logical end other than to try and stump the adult in question. At least that was how Sam saw it. Nanny Ashtoreth seemed to have an infinite patience for them,  though, and tended to even seem impressed when  Warlock came up with something that left even her stumped.

O n those occasions he’d see nanny slip Warlock a sweet with an approving nod. It only made Warlock all the more determined to ask difficult questions and ask things without clear cut answers.  _Teaching him to think for himself_ .  Sam would think with far too much fondness for a demon. 

And in the spring  before Warlock turned five some of those difficult questions came to the fore in one of the worst ways possible.

T he Dowlings had just been to an event put on at the  artillery barracks in Woolwich.  Thaddeus Dowling, as ever, had spent just enough time there to posture and pose with the highest ranking military officers  before getting in a separate car to return to other business.

Naturally, Nanny Ashtoreth had expected a degree of tears or dramatics when they returned home. It was never any easier on young Warlock that his father had more time for professional strangers than he did for being at home. So far Ashtoreth hadn’t actually had the dubious displeasure of meeting the man beyond that one brief exchange outside of the convent when delivering the Antichrist. She was quite glad of it given that she didn’t know how far in check she could keep her tongue, even to her employer.

It was a surprise then when they returned and Harriet was almost as worked up as Warlock was. The bodyguards that were  usually  a constant background hum were close around the both of them, all straight backed and nervous eyed.

Nanny Ashtoreth rolled her eyes, stepping in between the men with barely a look in their direction and holding a hand out for Mrs Dowling to take as Warlock attached himself to her leg. The woman was shaking which was most certainly  _not_ something that women of her breeding simply did for no reason.

“Tea, I should think. And a nice sit down. Then we can talk about whatever nasty thing has you both so shaken, hmm?” She suggested, guiding them through to the living room with a brief withering look to the one bodyguard who looked like he might try to stop her. Paul or Mark or something just as bland and forgettable. He quickly lowered his hand the moment her eyes locked with his over the rim of her glasses.

W hen Warlock seemed uncertain on his legs she deftly stooped down to sweep him up in one arm, still gently guiding Mrs Dowling with a hand at her back until she was settled into a chair. “Now dear, how about you let nanny know what has you both so upset.” She offered.

Mrs Dowling nodded haltingly  though she did look uncertainly at Warlock for a long moment as nanny absently rocked him in her lap.

“It happened to him too. It’s nothing that will help the young man in being silent about it now.” She chided, almost gently and only because this was for Warlock.

A nd so slowly, the story came out. Of a man on the street who’d been attacked by men carrying blades. Of how the body had been dragged into the road so close to where their own car was that they had  _seen_ the chillingly calm faces of the men who had done it. The driver had naturally whisked them away but not until after both Warlock and Harriet had been suitably traumatised by the event.

Warlock stayed surprisingly quiet through the whole telling, though there were tears rolling down his face and little sobs heaving his shoulders.

Mrs Dowling eventually made her excuses to have other things to do once she had calmed a little. She at least had the decency to look a little guilty to be leaving Warlock in the state that he was  but it wasn’t enough to keep her close to the boy.

W hen she was gone, however, Warlock looked up to her with wide, wet eyes and Ashtoreth knew that there were going to be questions he hadn’t felt able to ask with his mother there. “Is that man dead now?”

Nanny Ashtoreth shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. We could find out. People will likely know by now. But it might upset you to see more of it on the news.” She held the remote out to Warlock carefully, a temptation but a clear choice. The warning right there.

“What if he is?”

“Well young Warlock, if he is there’s nothing more that we can do for him. You’re safe and so is your mother. Whatever happened it won’t change that.”

Warlock considered this with a frown. Whatever it was, it wasn’t quite the answer he’d been hoping for. Still, he turned on the television and  took very little time to find a channel where it was breaking news.

There was already footage of the attack available thanks to bystanders with smart phones and Warlock hid his face against nanny Ashtoreth’s shirt rather than witness it over again. “I can turn the television over dear. A few cartoons before your mother realises.” She offered softly.

Warlock only shook his head, gripping at her shirt tighter. “What happened?” He demanded instead.

Nanny huffed a gentle snort of air. “Demands are for other peons, not for your nanny.” She chided but proceeded to tell him regardless.

Once she had they turned the television off and nanny Ashtoreth continued to answer further questions that had piled up around the terrible event.

“Why do people do things like that?”

“They’re scared and angry and think they’re right. It’s a terrible combination f things young warlock, but one day you will be lord of this world and all of them will be dust under your boot.”

“Will that happen to me?”

“Oh no, you’ll always be protected from anything like that Warlock. Then when you come to your power no one will dare to stand against you.”

“Is ev’ryone like that? Do they want to hurt ev’ryone?”

Nanny Ashtoreth looked down to Warlock, feeling the faint stirring of the need to give the boy some faith in humanity. They were meant to be balancing him out after all. “Well… You see young Warlock, a lot of people are like that, but I used to know a man once who said that when you see terrible things like that you look for the helpers.” Warlock looked up with a slight wobble in his lip and Ashtoreth felt a little twist where her heart would be if she had one as a demon.

“You see I looked very closely at all of those people there. Even with those two men being very scary and hurting someone there were people who gathered around that man to try and keep him from any more harm. There were people keeping those men in one place and trying to stop them from doing anything worse. You see, even in the worst of situations people will surprise you with the kind things they do. People will always help each other.” She smiled gently down at Warlock, running a comforting hand up and down his back.

There was a slight hiccough of a sob from the young master but he finally seemed a little calmer, ruminating on those words with solemnity. “Even when they could get hurt?”

Nanny Ashtoreth hummed in assent. “Even then. Sometimes especially then. They surprise you sometimes with how much good is in them.”

\- - - - -

Michael caught up to them again as they were visiting Legoland. It was technically Nanny Ashtoreth’s day off but she wasn’t entirely set on Mrs Dowling’s ability to manage her own child and as such had arranged to come along with them. At a respectful distance, naturally, and with Sam in tow.

The entire exercise had come in quite handy when Warlock had insisted on going on the water rides and discovered that his dear mother was determinedly _not_ interested in being the responsible adult on a ride that involved children squirting small jets of water at each other.

Nanny Ashtoreth herself had raised an eyebrow at the request to go on the ride with Warlock. She had, naturally, acquiesced but only with the air of someone who was very much enjoying the fact that they had been completely right about another’s capabilities. She had also insisted on being led by hand into the ride by Warlock as a proper young gentleman should and had somehow, miraculously, stepped out at the end without a hair out of place or a drop of water on her.

For the moment Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Sam were sat on a set of benches watching over the Castaway Camp play area watching as young Warlock  threw himself up faux rigging with the abandon that only a young child could.

There was the faintest trace of ozone in the air just a moment before a scowling Archangel Michael was stood almost at attention at the side of their bench. Nanny Ashtoreth immediately went completely still and Sam knew that if she were anything other than human she would be coiling. It was enough to make him abandon his fish and chips with a sigh, knowing that the nanny wouldn’t be able to relax until the danger was gone and that having him less than attentive would only set her more on edge.

“You’re doing this all wrong!” Michael hissed, almost indignantly, whilst never actually looking towards the two of them. “He’s all but useless still and we’re halfway to Armageddon. How have you not been reassigned yet?”

Nanny Ashtoreth looked over to where Warlock was clambering around, pulling himself ruthlessly over children twice his size to get to the head of the little capsized ship at the centre of the playground. She smiled at young Warlock almost smugly. “Oh, I think he’ll get there dearie.”

“You’re an angel, isn’t patience supposed to be a virtue?” Sam pointed out as he straightened himself up. “I personally seem to remember you being quite fond of the long game, as it were.”

Michael’s lips twitched up into a hollow, thin smile. “I most certainly know what _I’m_ doing. Its your competence that concerns me. Why they let the least competent angel be the fallen who watches over _him_ is beyond me. Look at that. I’m certain any of them would act the same.” She vaguely gestured her chin, eyes purely on Warlock and never meeting the demons’.

Ashtoreth manages a true frown at this; more than just the disappointed look reserved for Warlock’s worst best behaviour. “Yes. For all you angels know about humans.  I’m certain you consider yourself an expert by now.” She sniffed derisively, taking Sam’s hand in her own as her voice dropped to a low mutter. “Lost the only one you had who really cared.”

Sam turned to smile at the nanny, almost beatific in his smile as he raised the hand and brushed a gentle kiss against knuckles.

Ashtoreth resisted the urge to snatch her hand back, ears ever so slightly pink at the edges. When Michael turned even more pointedly away from them, however, her resolve hardened and  s he shuffled closer to Sam, holding both of their hands in her lap.  She rubbed her thumb over the back of Sam’s hand almost fretfully but remained  steadfastly monitoring the Archangel.

Sam grinned and nanny Ashtoreth knew that he was going to do something that proved he was a complete bastard. Instead it morphed into the tenderest of looks in his eyes, the one that made Ashtoreth’s, made  _Crowley’s_ , stomach squirm. Made him wonder if he could survive the strength of Aziraphale’s devotion.  Made him wonder how an unforgivable demon could be given a gift so completely  _perfect_ .

Sam, for his part, was focusing every drop of his love and devotion onto Crowley until he saw the persona of Nanny Ashtoreth crack just enough that begrudging fondness bloomed into warm adoration. A thing that he could always rely on.

When he turned towards Michael the archangel was blanching as she looked between the two of them.

Sam’s look turned smug. The cat who had the cream filled cannolis, and he shifted closer still to Ashtoreth. “Something  _else_ I’m afraid you angels don’t understand quite as well as you should.”

Michael looked like thunder, enough that Sam wondered if they would have to flee, but instead there was a flash of light and ozone and the archangel was gone.

Still, after she had left Nanny Ashtoreth continued to look over at young Warlock thoughtfully. “He  _is_ very normal, you know. He is supposed to have that… deflection from our kind but it does seem a tad too much. Like something isn’t right.” She finally admitted.

“Hmm… Well, like you said, he _is_ supposed to seem normal to us. Let’s just keep a close eye, shall we darling?” Sam smiled when Ashtoreth pursed her lips, trying for severe but not nearly hiding the smile that was trying to curl at her lips.

\- - - - -

On the day of Warlock’s fourth birthday party Sam was working in the garden at just the right angle to see as the boy dashed outside, face scrunched up and screaming that it _wasn’t fair_. From inside Sam could hear Mrs Dowling hissing about Warlock ‘making a scene’ in front of all these people and how he needed to grow up.

Nanny, with considerably more patience than Sam _expected_ her to have for such a sentiment, took her time to patiently explain ‘correct reactions at age and stage of development’. Sam knew when she was stalling for time and guessed that it would be best to encourage young Warlock back into the house if he could; where there were too many eyes for him to be scolded openly.

“Young master Warlock. What brings you out here without all your little friends?”

  
“ Not my friends. I hate them.” Warlock shouted back amid a flurry of tears, little feet stomping hard into the grass.

“Hmm, so you’re here because I’m a better friend, perhaps?” Sam wheedled with a soft smile.

“Hate you too!” Warlock declared, reaching down for a handful of dirt and grass and throwing it at the gardener.

Sam  looked over to where Ashtoreth was definitely no longer looking at him and let out a deep sigh. “Perhaps so, but I care about if you’re upset even if you do hate me.” He pointed out mildly.

Warlock, it seemed, did not wish to be calmed so easily and instead continued to stomp a rampage through the garden, pulling out flowers and yelling and screaming and eventually Sam got a n “And I hate daddy!”

Sam sighed and nodded slowly to himself “Ah, yes, your father. Quite the gent isn’t he?” Warlock heard the disparaging tone that usually came from his mother on her second bottle of wine and blinked in surprise, attention finally on the gardener fully.

“Well I’m certain that he does what he thinks is best for you. Some parents just don’t know well enough to get it right first time. He’s likely wholly convinced that this wonderful home and expensive toys and staff are more than enough. Enough that he stays back to work very hard to make sure it stays that way.”

Warlock frowned, clearly unhappy with this reasoning. “He should be here. ‘S my birfday.”

Sam nodded with a rueful smile. “Well, yes. Perhaps he only doesn’t know what it means to you. Next time you see him you can talk. Perhaps Nanny can help you come up with something.”

“Nanny doesn’t like him.”

Aziraphale chuckled dryly. “Hmm, perhaps not, young Warlock, but that’s because she sees how much things upset you and she thinks he should know better. She’s had so much more experience with little ones like you.”

Warlock’s lip started to wobble with the threat of tears and Aziraphale pulled forward a blanket that previously hadn’t been there just as Warlock collapsed back onto the grass. “ Only nanny cares and she gets paid. She’ll leave too.” He declared, heartbroken with the very thought.

“Nanny’s going to leave one day, yes. But you’re going to be strong enough then to cause all the quiet havoc you need to when it’s too much. But, my dear boy, you must know that even though she is doing a job here nanny _does_ care for you so. She could live a few thousand more years and not stop caring about whether you grew up okay.” He promised with a gentle smile to the young man. “You’ll always have someone who cares about how you’re doing, even if she doesn’t show it so much.”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “I know what to look for, young Warlock, and I know she loves you so fiercely that you could be her own. Not that you should  _say_ as much to her, mind. Nothing makes nanny grumpier than all that talk while she’s talking you through how to rule your empire. Keeping up appearances and all that.” He smiled, a glittering in his eye.

Warlock did manage a slight smile at that, even though there was still sadness there. “Wish dad cared that much.”

“Yes, and I’m sure neither nanny nor I are impressed. But you aren’t alone.” He assured him.

Warlock blinked a few times, the wetness in his eyes having all but receded. Sam pulled out a small, dark blue pocket square that had no place being in gardening overalls and carefully wiped over Warlock’s face, huffing at the squirming. “I don’t have nanny’s patience for this.” He muttered to himself, relinquishing the child with some dirt still on his cheek.

When he shooed Warlock back towards the party he saw Nanny Ashtoreth leaning against the doorway, hip cocked with an expectant eyebrow raised above dark glasses. A smile immediately pulled at Aziraphale’s lips. Tender with the warmth that swelled in his chest. He winked playfully in return, revelling in the way Ashtoreth straightened up and flushed so slightly that it could barely be seen.

\- - - - -

On the day that Nanny Ashtoreth formally met Mr Thaddeus Dowling, five years and three months into Warlock’s life, everything went back to hell in the hand basket the Antichrist had arrived in.

Ashtoreth had no respect for the man as it was, so when he came striding from the house with a “So where is the little tyke?” she was already halfway stood from their tea party to pointedly remind him of Warlock’s name when she came up short, eyes narrowed at the human she was faced with.

“Thaddeus Dowling, I presume?” She raised en eyebrow even as Warlock rushed away from the table to give his father an awkward hug.

“Yes and you must be the nanny. Stellar job you’ve been doing I hear.” Dowling offered her a handshake and Ashtoreth gave back a curt, icy nod, hands never moving from where they were clasped formally in front of her.

“Yes, I do try. Now, I should take young Warlock to get ready for dinner.” She excuses the both of them, noticing with no small degree of satisfaction that he was a lot more eager to take her hand than he was to go to his human father.

Still, her free hand was clenched hard at her side and her gait a little more stiff as she went through the rest of the day.

The moment the two of them had a day off Crowley was near dragging Aziraphale to a little Thai restaurant a few miles away from the Dowlings’ mansion. It gave him enough of an excuse to drive far too quickly down country lanes, knuckles almost white on the steering wheel.

“Darling, would you _please_ slow down a little. I know you’ll keep us safe but I do enjoy these little tootles with you and I don’t want it to be over too soon.” Aziraphale slides a gentle hand over Crowley’s knee.

“Just… Not now.” Crowley bit out tersely.

It was enough for Aziraphale to gently extricate his hand, somewhere between worried and hurt. It made Crowley’s stomach turn but he continued to stare fixedly out of the windscreen.

He sighed, almost resigned, and shook his head. “Just not now, angel. When we get there I promise.”

Aziraphale did nod slowly at this but continued to fold his hands into his lap, watching the scenery pass by solemnly as he worried at his hands, wondering what could have Crowley quite so upset. Every so often his hand danced out of its own accord as though to touch the other but pulled up short at the last moment each time.

By the time they reached the restaurant Crowley was wound so tight that he made use of a minor miracle just to not have the server question them as he walked them over to the table and pulled out a chair for Aziraphale  with surprising gentleness to say that his fists were still clenched enough to make the wood creak.

A ziraphale was not the world’s most patient demon when it came to being left in the dark, especially not by Crowley. He did have just enough patience to wait until they’d ordered before reaching out to take Crowley’s hand in his and pointedly rubbing a thumb over the back of his hand. 

He stayed quiet but expectant until  Crowley finally  sighed and rubbed at his eyes under the glasses. “Look, you’ve seen Dowling strutting around  last few days , right?”

“Yes. Has he done something Crowley?” He asked cautiously. People’s attentions on Nanny Ashtoreth were hardly always pure and Aziraphale rarely minded. Crowley was, naturally, very tempting in whatever form he was in but Aziraphale knew how much he already disliked Mr Dowling and it was dangerous to run the risk that nanny would actually tear him apart.

“Nooo.” Crowley rolled his eyes, leaning back in the chair and drumming his fingers on the edge of the table. “It’s just... That bloke’s not the Dowling I met. Outside the hospital. When I delivered Warlock.”

“Whatever do you mean my dear?”

“The guy outside of the hospital, said what room they were in and I handed over the kid. I mean, he wasn’t a doctor. Told them the room. They’d know better than to do it just because I said, right? It’s just that…. You know, he’s pretty normal, maybe too normal. But _they_ knew where the child was supposed to go. I don’t know, just can’t help but wonder after I told them the room if they’d just do it anyway.”

Aziraphale, who had found himself striking up a conversation with the gentleman outside of the nunnery, looked to Crowley like he’d grown a second head. “The man outside? How did you think _that man_ was the American Diplomat?”

Crowley  shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, a sour look curling his lips. “Well I wasn’t thinking like that, was I? Barely wanted the job anyway. Just wanted it to be over with, nervous father, never even  _heard_ his blessed accent.  That’s not the point though, is it? ”  He waves his hand as if shaking off the technicality. “I told the nuns to give the kid to that idiot. What if they handed him off to the wrong blessed human?”

Aziraphale thought carefully back to the conversation he’d had and what little he could remember of it. He hadn’t thought it would be noteworthy at the time but he definitely did recall enough to know that the man was local. “ We can certainly spend the time to check in on that other family just in case of any mishaps. I suppose if Warlock really is mortal  we would be going to hunt the Antichrist, dear.”


	12. Splitting the party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two demons reach Tadfield a lot earlier, wind each other up like only an old married couple can do, and decide what to do about having two potential Antichrists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so it's been a super, super long time and I apologise but I also have an extra long chapter to offer as part pennance  
> There wasn't really a good place to break this one up without ending up with an entire chapter of plain conjecture and rehashing some of the book stuff so it's just all one.
> 
> I'm hoping the next one won't take as long but as always my life is in the hands of the fates, the muses, and very interesting GO discord servers.

There was a delighted laugh from the garden and Crowley dragged himself outside to where Aziraphale was sat on a low wall, watching the herd of sheep grazing beyond as they gave the demon a respectful distance. One leg was curled under him as the other rested on the wall and the steady springtime sun of Tadfield lit up his hair like a halo, making Crowley’s heart give a little lurch.

“What’s going on then?” He asked, leaning against the wall with a cup of heavily irished coffee in his hands.

“Oh, they’ve been calling out for their lost little friend and now she’s found them all. But it seems she’s brought down about half of another flock with her. Just got in over a broken bit of wall, though I can’t imagine how that’s happened. They’re usually so well built.” Aziraphale turned to him with a mischievous glint in his eye and Crowley had to look away for a second while his heart struggled to get back to its normal rate. “Going to cause a bit of bother I imagine. The farmers don’t get along well as it is even without half the flock ending up elsewhere.”

“I thought we were supposed to be resting here, like a holiday. At least until we find the real Antichrist.” Crowley tutted as he sauntered forward, no real admonishment in the words.

Aziraphale held up his book, though his shoulders were still shaking with barely repressed laughter. “Well we still need something to report back when the time comes. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the bends in the road getting sharper. All those people going too fast down country lanes, I dread to think of the havoc it will cause.” There was a flash of teeth as Aziraphale reached up to the odd not-a-tie-what-on-Earth-is-this-my-dear and used it to pull Crowley down into a kiss.

Aziraphale tried not to be too disappointed when Crowley stiffened up; the previous brashness of Nanny Ashtoreth back to his usual uncertainty around Aziraphale’s affections. Still so careful of him, always, even though it was more than six and a half centuries later.

It only took Crowley a moment to respond but it was telling enough and Aziraphale’s eyes flitted over the other’s face as he pulled back, trying to discern some part of what he was thinking. He smiled as best he could and carefully, so carefully in case Crowley wanted to stop him, reached up to pull the glasses away. He was mollified to at least see that the gold hadn’t overtaken the sclera.

It seemed to bring Crowley back to himself at least. He straightened up and placed a hand on Aziraphale’s upper arm that was trying far too hard to be casual, like a human trying to demonstrate that they are very much sober in front of their parents. “Yeah well… like you said, isn’t it? Can’t be completely out of practice.” He shrugged with a practised nonchalance that was as endearing as it was frustrating.

“My dear, please do relax a little. It’s hardly worth being so wound up even when head office isn’t around.”

“Yeah, of course, just relax. Naturally, easiest thing in the world to do when we’re not sure if we have the right Antichrist; bringer of end days, boiler of seas and dolphins.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at the mocking wiggle of Crowley’s head, his shoulders rolling as if ruffling up the few feathers that remained continually stuck in his fallen form. “Very well, but we’re hardly likely to get anything productive done staying here all day and given that you’re finally awake, what do you say to a walk on to the common, my dear?”

Crowley pulled a face at this with the slightest of eye rolls. “Sure angel but you _know_ no one will have been about anyway. Lucky if anywhere but the corner shop’s open right now anyway.”

“Oh, I’m certain one of those charming little pubs or even a cafe will be. Perfect opportunity to watch the morning traffic. Then we can try the church when it all goes quiet.” Aziraphale pointed out with flippant cheer. He really was getting rather used to Crowley’s way of blustering through as though everything was going to be okay. Present circumstances notwithstanding.

Likely expecting Crowley to ensure that some poor bugger just happened to feel like opening up early, or else planning to do so himself. “Demanding.” He muttered with absolutely no venom at all. He had to look away when the other beamed at him proudly at the accusation; not exactly angel bright any longer but with _something_ regardless that made the empty spaces in Crowley warmer and brighter in response.

Aziraphale unfurled himself from his perch on the wall and slipped past Crowley in the most kitschy tartan slippers. He left a gentle brush of his knuckles against the other’s as he went and Crowley reminded himself to breathe slowly and normally. Like a regular human. _They_ might know that they’d potentially screwed up but no one else was any the wiser and he knew Aziraphale was right, that they were no more watching them now than usual. It was just that Crowley was also very wary of hell at a baseline. He slithered off after the other almost without a second thought, comfortable in keeping his distance as long as Aziraphale was at least in eyesight.

\- - - - -

There was, indeed, a small greasy spoon open serving bacon and egg butties right by the main crossroads in Tadfield. Aziraphale had taken one look at the food on offer and decided to wait until the little bakery down the street was open. Crowley had wound up with a take away cup of tea, the tag from the bag hanging loose and distracting down one side, as they sat out front and watched the locals on their morning commute.

“Letting her tyre go bald… bit dangerous if you ask me. If it blew out, speeds they go down these roads.” Crowley tutted, more to himself given Aziraphale’s lack of interest in cars. Or newer technology in general.

Aziraphale only quirked an eyebrow, giving a long hard look to the cup of tea as he considered whether he wanted one enough to put up with a disposable cup. “I must be quite the bad influence on you, dearest. You’re hardly usually this malicious about your marks.”

Crowley snorted and fiddled aimlessly with the loose tag. “Won’t matter if we don’t have the right Antichrist, right? May as well. ‘Sides, I’d only give her a shock. Doesn’t have to be anyone else around.”

He gestured agitatedly with his free hand until Aziraphale caught it in his and squeezed firmly. “Come now, my dear. It’s us two and I’ve _always_ had the utmost faith in you and your wiles. We’ll find the boy and we’ll sort out a way to evaluate if he’s the Antichrist. I’m certain of you, dearest, and I’m certainly not going to put up with Hell on earth without any proper cuisine or comfort. So it will just have to work, won’t it?”

Crowley gulped and did his best to hold back the fondness in his smile at the fussy demon at his side. “Well, guess there’s nothing for it then.” He grinned with a wink that was perhaps a touch more confident than he truly felt.

Still, Aziraphale was talking about faith in him after losing his grace and what, exactly, was a smitten occult being _supposed_ to do after that sort of declaration? Crowley, for one, was going to lounge back in his chair, sip at some over-steeped tea (with perhaps a very minor miracle to improve the taste) and watch the traffic pass whilst making a general nuisance of himself.

“That him?” Crowley asked, vaguely gesturing to a car after almost half an hour of silent watching.

“Crowley that’s almost nothing like the man.”

“That him?”

“Mmm? Oh, good _Lord_ no. Much too old, I think.”

“That-”

“Is a woman Crowley, and you are more than aware of that fact.”

The demon grinned and leaned back further, though the rigid cheap seating shouldn’t have allowed that much movement. “Told you I couldn’t remember him. They all look as likely.”

Aziraphale let out a slow breath through his nose and fixed a pointed stare on the other. “My dear, how about you go and glue a few coins to the pavement and leave me to work if you’re struggling with this?”

“Oi. There’s a degree of low level negativity that guides people into making their own bad choices and I just facilitate it. Told you before-”

“And you’re simply _marvellous_ at it, dearest. Better with humanity’s capacity for sin than any other demon I know. What you’re _not_ marvellous at is keeping still and focussed. Shy of putting you on my lap I doubt I’m going to be given the time to concentrate unless you occupy yourself.”

Crowley almost choked on a mouthful of his drink, a series of distressed half-sounds bubbling up out of him before he slung himself to his feet. “Right. Well, I...” There was a moment that Crowley seemed to be considering an out, body going still but in a way that Aziraphale knew instinctively meant his eyes were darting around behind dark glasses.

A moment later the demon made some sort of decision and his body undulated into a deliberately relaxed posture as he gave Aziraphale a slight smirk. “Riiight. I see what you did there. Trying to tempt me again? Not so impressive when we’re both… on the same side.”

Aziraphale’s eyes raise ever so slightly to the heavens, though he’d stopped looking for strength from that direction a fair while ago, and pats his knee. “And is it working, my dear?”

Crowley seems to consider for a moment, leaning in and over Aziraphale languidly with all of the energy he’d put into a very good temptation. “I suppose you could count me persuaded.”

Aziraphale was smiling when he found himself with a lap full of sinewy muscle and flyaway limbs. He patiently held still as Crowley rearranged himself, legs off to the side and one arm slung possessively around Aziraphale’s shoulders.

He smirked widely as an older gent walking his dog paused at the display and looked over at them, lips pulling into a thin line of disapproval. He leaned in to brush a very obvious kiss against Aziraphale’s cheek, even more pleased when the other only chuckled at him and brushed a firm hand along his thigh to keep him held in his lap. Crowley could almost _hear_ the tutting from here. He didn’t know it at the time but within the week there would be a very strongly worded letter in the Tadfield Advertiser about the decay of public morals and what people could possibly think was appropriate in the middle of the street. It would be rounded off nicely with a call to ensure that the children are taught better than these **disgraceful** displays.

For all he was loathe to admit it, because Aziraphale would get that _smug_ look on his face, the weight of the other demon’s arms around him and the warm, solid presence against his side helped to steady some of the nervous energy. At the very least it was enough to have Crowley producing a notebook and pen from pockets that didn’t even have enough room for his wallet.

Unfortunately, sitting on Aziraphale’s lap tended to provide mixed responses in the good vs evil department. For every traditionalist getting annoyed about moral values and PDA there was someone who felt safer, less alone, or who just enjoyed that kind of soppy stuff.

It left Crowley with the urge to start on another one of his schemes. If he was lucky, and he never had been, he might even be able to get Aziraphale in on it. There were still dozens of ways to make life just a little bit more irritating and push humans into their own bad decisions. He considered blocking the entry way to a single tube station. Perhaps putting up an installation at one of the city’s arteries – enough to have every tourist stop to take pictures right in front of people on their commutes. Maybe even a push towards another election. (Admittedly the last one hadn’t come close enough to riots so it might not be worth that much work.)

He was about settled on removing the first season of every show from Netflix when Aziraphale’s arms tightened ever so slightly around him.

There was an attempt to turn, to ask his angel what was happening. It turned immediately into a vague squak-hiss of alarm as Aziraphale shot to his feet. He flailed, limbs everywhere and yet miraculously not catching Aziraphale anywhere painful as the other kept him held firm against his chest until he could set him down.

“What the heaven do you think you-”

“Hush, Crowley. I think I saw him. In fact I’m almost certain of it. Now I know what the fellow’s motor car looks like I think that we can take the rest of the day to ourselves don’t you think? After all, we’ll only be able to find the place when he returns.”

“Motor- I….” Crowley briefly looked as though he desperately wanted to have an argument, face twisting up in an annoyance that only smoothed when he saw how _pleased with himself_ the other looked.

(Aziraphale could wield language like no other demon could and, in fact, had been the one to begin the argument over how the word scone was pronounced. He would also invariably then insist on pronouncing it “A very good little cake indeed.” regardless and watch a group of already pointlessly near-rabid people be worked into further frenzy.)

In the end Crowley elected to stand without further argument and offer an arm to Aziraphale who didn’t once stop looking pleased as he looped his own arm around Crowley’s and leaned up to brush a kiss against his jaw. He closed his eyes at the sensation, let himself enjoy the warm dry brush of it and remember that he didn’t have to hide how much he wanted this any more. Yes, they had to be cautious. There would have to be an excuse if any other demon caught them doing something so domestic: demons didn’t consort with each other, shouldn’t trust each other, so there still had to be some way to deny exactly what this was but they at least didn’t have to hide their proximity any longer.

When he opened his eyes again he found that Aziraphale’s smugness had morphed into something equally as tender; his dark, knowing eyes reading Crowley like a book. Demons didn’t feel embarrassment so of course that wasn’t the reason for the slight heat that rose in him to be pinned in that way by Aziraphale’s gaze. They also, allegedly, didn’t feel love so it couldn’t be that either. So for the moment it was a complete mystery as Aziraphale led them back along the green to get the lay of the land in Tadfield and look for somewhere a little more acceptable to get a bite to eat.

\- - - - - - 

It comes as a surprise to no one that a church of Satanic nuns does not even make an attempt to lightly scorch a demon on entering the grounds. As such, despite the relative quiet of the early afternoon, Crowley didn’t have much reason to think that anything was odd as they stepped into Tadfield Manor. The loss of an intimidating statue with a pointedly serpentine creature wrapped around it was perhaps a slightly more obvious sign that change was afoot but even that was easy enough to ignore given their worries about the Antichrist.

“Little quiet in here, don’t you think my dear? I’d have thought _chattering_ nuns would make this place a little more spirited.” 

“Mmm?” Crowley straightened up and looked back from where he’d been leaning to chase the scent of freshly sawn wood and renovations. “Uh, yeah. Pretty lively last time I came here. Big night though, then, I suppose. Suppose there’s less getting up at dawn for chanting and dark works when you know the end’s already in motion.”

Aziraphale tutted at this, rolling his eyes and hoping for the strength to deal with his infuriating, smart-mouthed demon. “What I mean, of course, is doesn’t it feel as though there’s something a little off about the whole thing?”

“Well...” Crowley gave a half shrug that was just this side of too casual and Aziraphale found himself sighing. “Bit weird, maybe. Find out when we find people I suppose.”

People, as it turned out, was Person (singular, noun) and found them as they were wandering a hallway that gave the distinct impression of being a temporary storage facility. Heels clicking against the polished wood was the first indication they had that anyone was around. It certainly wasn’t followed by anything remotely resembling chattering as a fairly well dressed woman came into view, brow slightly furrowed as though wondering if she hadn’t locked the front doors after all.

“Sorry, gentlemen. We’re only taking phone bookings at the moment. As you can see we aren’t yet open fo-”

Something akin to understanding started to light in the woman’s eyes just as Crowley reached up and stilled her with a careless snap of his fingers.

“Crowley, she was hardly in the middle of throwing us out. It wouldn’t have hurt to simply  
_ask_ her what happened to the nuns before all of this.” Aziraphale gestured vaguely with another slight roll of his eyes.

“What happened to the- Aziraphale, this **is** one of the Satan blessed nuns. Updated her wardrobe a bit” his eyes briefly flickered judgementally over Aziraphale’s own preferred wardrobe “but I’d know that face, I gave the basket to her.”

“Well then _surely_ you could just talk to her anyway. She knows about the Antichrist and about all this business.” Aziraphale points out, in what he feels is a perfectly reasonable way.

“Yes, of course. ‘Good afternoon, we’re two demons who don’t actually know where the Son of Satan might have gone after he was in your dubious care. We may have either lost him or not. Care to help us understand where we might have gone wrong here?’ You want to start with that or just ask her while she’s relaxed?”

Crowley’s agitated gesturing was enough to have Aziraphale gently catch the demon’s hands in his own and press gentle kisses to his knuckles. “I was only saying, my dear. Of course I will defer to you if you think this is the best way.”

He tried not to look too satisfied with himself when Crowley huffed and dropped his hands, all but melting at the gesture. Sweet, sappy snake.

“Alright, were you a nun here five years ago?” Crowley asked.

“Yes.” The voice was hollow and alarmingly passive after the clipped, businesslike tones of the woman before.

“Right, and you helped with the switching of two new born babies that year, right?” Crowley leaned in, tipping his glasses down just enough to stare dead on at the woman.

She didn’t flinch as she looked impassively ahead but there was a little more of a hesitation, an effort to find the memory, before she came to an answer. “Yes.”

“And there was another birth happening that night, correct?” Aziraphale leaned in with a wide smile.

“Yes.”

“Alright. So you got records of it? Everyone keeps records.” He turned to Aziraphale with a grin, looking uncharacteristically proud. “Do even better at making them incomprehensible than Dagon does these days, with all the electronic systems.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. It was a good part of why he refused to get too bogged down in the technology lark if he could. Crowley _enjoyed_ it too much. Which meant he often had a hand in it. Which meant chaos for everyone in the vicinity. Aziraphale could create his own bubble of chaos and misery without ending up being crack chatted a picture of someone’s frankly disappointing penis.

“We did have records, lots of records. There was a fire not long after the birth and they were all lost.”

Crowley bent back almost over himself with a frustrated groan at that. “Hasssstur! It’s absolutely his style, probably thought he was being clever. All the subtlety of a… fire at a convent.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help the slight smirk at that as he pressed a soothing hand to Crowley’s lower back. “Never mind. It could still be Warlock, and in either case we’ve _time_. Quite unfortunately Hastur is always going to be a little to try hard for your tastes. I still remember how offended you were when I first took to their style of temptations.” He smiled fondly.

Crowley looked over at Aziraphale and momentarily seemed to calm a little before remembering that he was in a room with a human and didn’t exactly have time to be going soft. “Look, just- what do you remember about the diplomat and his wife? Did he mentioned where he lived? What was he wearing? Details.” Crowley growled, feeling himself already coming up on a dead end.

“Was he, perhaps, about so tall? Trendy little argyle knit jumper? Pipe?” Aziraphale supplied helpfully.

The ex sister shook her head. “No.” Aziraphale visibly deflated. “Nothing trendy about him. He did have the jumper though. And we needed to move him out with the pipe, after he’d had his biscuits of course.”

Crowley had to make the effort to breathe deeply for a second to avoid laughing so hard he broke his corporation. From the frankly venomous look Aziraphale gave him he assumed that the other didn’t appreciate the considerable lengths he had gone to in order to spare him the laughter.

“Thank you very much. I think that’s all that we needed.” Aziraphale huffed through his nose, tone clipped as he took Crowley’s arm. “When you wake you will have no recollection of seeing us.” He bid, willing the miracle into existence as he pulled Crowley’s slightly shaking form through the doorway.

Aziraphale didn’t let go until they were back out on the front lawn, tapping his foot imperiously as he looked up at Crowley. “Oh do you mind, really?”

“Not really.” Crowley grinned, leaning in to ghost a kiss over Aziraphale’s pouting lips. “Come on, sounds like you were right about the guy at least so we can go check him out. See if he’s as _trendy_ as you remember.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at this, watching Crowley’s hip-sway carefully as he started off towards the Bentley. The moment they were moving back towards him he reached out and swatted Crowley across the backside none-too-lightly.

The indignant squawk that he got, a flush immediately at the tips of the other’s demonic ears, was more than satisfactory.

“Did you just- I’m gonna get you back for that.” Crowley warned in a low voice.

It only made Aziraphale smile wider. “My dear, I’m rather counting on it. Most likely with your worryingly erratic driving I imagine.” He did his best to hide how white knuckled his grip on the seat was when Crowley did, indeed, pull away at an alarming pace. If he looked less frazzled it may lead to a much more agreeable tête-à-tête later on.

\- - - - - 

After having the chance to track the car back on it’s journey home (thank evil for standard 9-5 jobs that make travel so predictable and traffic so easy to cause) Aziraphale and Crowley spent the following few days gathering information about the Young family.  
Arthur and Deirdre Young did indeed have a child, Adam, about the right age for the Antichrist. They lived in a small house at the edge of Tadfield near to some woods that were surprisingly safe and each worked completely traditional jobs. They were, in their entirety, a completely normal family. 

Too normal. Much like Crowley had said about Warlock, which decidedly **did not** help.

Still, they were here for a reason and at least went to check things out a little more closely once Aziraphale finally felt that he’d gathered enough information. This was how Crowley put it, at least, as though he himself were not entertaining vague fantasies of going under cover and forming a dossier of information about their targets.

It was a Wednesday evening, one of the few Arthur didn’t go to the local pub for a quick pint after work, when they finally went to the house with a plate of miraculously summoned home-made biscuits. When they arrived Arthur was outside having just been sent out with his pipe, as expected.

Aziraphale grinned widely as he held up the plate. “Arthur, my good fellow, how the devil are you?”

Behind him Crowley tried not to fall back into one of the hedges from rolling his eyes so hard his entire body went with it.

The man blinked for a few seconds, a little stupefied and narrowing his eyes to get a better look. “Yes. Hi.. Do I, er…” There was a snap of fingers that could have come from either of the demons and Arthur’s face did something complicated for a moment. “Yes I do know you, you shared a smoke with me outside of the nunnery.”

Aziraphale’s smile brightened and his spare hand went out to reach for Arthur’s arm before he thought better of it and gestured aimlessly into the air. “Well of course I did, after all this time. Wonderful to be around for the big event, even if we were called away again so soon after. Of course, Crowley’s still working away dear boy, but I found myself a little homesick and five years without seeing our dear godson was more than enough. Don’t you agree, Arthur?”

The man looked at him a little blankly for a moment, taking in the gentle rambling with a slightly confused nod. “Hm? What? Godson, oh yes, right. Well, that’s more Deirdre’s thing really but it’s good to keep the traditions going.” He nodded with another draw on his pipe. “And see you both again, of course.”

“Yes and how is my dear” _Niece he didn’t look old enough for. Sister was too much to explain away. Friend? Did humans still say dear friend that way? Still, there was one word that came out easily enough after Dear_ “girl?”

“Hands full a bit, I’m afraid. They say it gets easier once they’re in school but there’s still always something. And now Adam’s starting to talk about being old enough to go into the woods to play out. New friends from school, you see.”

Aziraphale nodded sympathetically though he did not, in fact, see. He also had the distinct impression that Arthur had some fairly traditional ideas about gender roles in parenting and that he likely understood little of the actual stress on poor Deirdre. “Well yes, I don’t think they ever stop being terribly energetic things. Still, the things we do for love.” He smiled and for a moment managed something approximate to angelic in the warmth he exuded.

“Well, perhaps you should come in anyway. It’ll be getting nippy soon and I’m sure the missus will have the kettle on before long.” Arthur offered up, the suggestion of their status as godparents taking quick root in his brain.

“Oh wonderful, how very good of you Arthur. It’ll be so good to catch up.”

Mr Young ushered them in happily enough, looking distinctly relieved when Deirdre was right there in the living room as they came in. “Dear, look who’s just come back into Tadfield. Popped around for a quick visit.” He smiled, a slight strain at the edges.

Aziraphale knew it well as the little dance that humans did when they didn’t remember each others’ names and didn’t want to have to admit it. And _of course_ they hadn’t introduced themselves because Arthur was already supposed to know who they were. He looked back towards Crowley with a look urging him to step in before anything went wrong, even as he started to hand over the plate of biscuits.

“Okay and who are-” Mrs Young’s look slowly went from annoyed and confused to a decent mix of pleased and put-out. “Well you could have rung ahead of course. I’m most the way through dinner and I’m afraid there’s not enough for-”

“Oh no, my dear girl, please don’t trouble yourself. No it’s naturally a flying visit. We only just got back into Tadfield and wanted to check, you see, with how you’re all doing and of course we haven’t seen young Adam since the blessing.”

Aziraphale relaxed a little when Crowley finally finished his slow half-circle around him and placed a grounding hand onto his shoulder. “Heard he’s growing headstrong enough. Good for a kid just in school, bet its made sure he’s got no bother with bullies.”

Deirdre had visibly relaxed a little and finally took the plate from Aziraphale as Arthur went to go settle into his chair. “Well he seems to be doing well, yes. All energy and wondering why at this age.” She smiled a little tiredly and Crowley gave a suitably compassionate nod in return. “But where are my manners, tea? _Adam, where are you? We’ve got guests for you to meet. Haven’t seen you in ages._ ” She called up the stairs as she headed off towards the kitchen without a response. Of course house guests would want tea.

Adam, who already knew that ‘we have guests and you have to meet them’ meant strange and often old family members, took his time in actually coming down from his room. He also brought a spaceship toy down with him for good measure for when it eventually turned into boring adults talk but he was made to keep sitting in the room anyway.

He stopped when he entered the room, looking up at the two demons with a considering gaze. If he noticed the two of them go completely still at the level of scrutiny he didn’t say as such. “Hi, I’m Adam.” He finally said, biting at his lower lip as if trying to puzzle something out. “Are you dad’s friends?”

Crowley dropped back to his haunches with a disarming smile and Aziraphale let out a breath of relief that he didn’t have to immediately pick the ball up on dealing with the small child. “Well we’re closer to your mum really. But we’re fond enough of your dad, eh Arthur?” He grinned up at the man who looked like he was about to say something before shaking his head and going back to his paper.

“Fond enough at least.” He winked, exaggerating the facial movement behind his glasses. “No, Aziraphale and I are very old friends of your mum and dad but we’ve been away in London for a long time. Might be coming back for a bit though. And I’m Crowley by the way, or at least that’s what you can call me.”

Adam seemed to consider the words carefully before nodding. “You should stay. Here’s better than anywhere in the world.”

“Hm, might have to then. If it comes with such a wonderful recommendation.” Aziraphale smiles, a little strained but more used to children this age from all the time around Warlock. Who was, admittedly, a less well mannered young man.

When Deirdre came back with tea for everyone, naturally knowing how Crowley and Aziraphale liked theirs because they’d been friends for _so long,_ they took the opportunity to spend the time ingratiating themselves with their hosts and very lightly grilling the potential Antichrist for any signs that he may, in fact, be just that.

They left just before Deirdre was about to announce that dinner was almost ready. This was also, coincidentally, just as Adam started to ask some more interested questions about what it meant when two men lived together instead of a mum and a dad.

Unfortunately the time at the house had given them no better an indication as to whether Adam was likely the Antichrist or not. He hadn’t mentioned anything terribly obvious about them being demons or started to speak in tongues in their proximity. He had looked at them with disturbingly Knowing eyes but Crowley quickly assured Aziraphale that all children had that ability somewhere in them. Indeed, like Warlock, everything was worryingly completely _normal._

Aziraphale gently leaned in to rest his head on Crowley’s chest, heaving a sigh with breath he didn’t need. They’d ended up in the small side room off the greenhouse that caught enough sun through the day to stay warm at night. Curled up in an overstuffed couch and looking out into the darkness of the fields at night it almost felt as though there wasn’t a ticking time bomb somewhere out in England counting down to the end of the world.

“What do we do though?” Crowley finally asks, head drifting up from where he’d been pressing a lazy kiss to Aziraphale’s curls. “Can’t just stay here. Warlock’s the Antichrist and we’ve just abandoned him to proper demonic influences for six years. Adam’s the real deal and he keeps going unchecked until he goes off like...” _A supernova, a black hole. Not his stars. Don’t bring that into it._ “like bloody Krakatoa.”

“Well,” Aziraphale sighed, quite magnanimously if he did think so himself. “I suppose you were never too fond of the way I treated the garden and really you’ve always been so close to Warlock… It would be a shame for him to lose your guiding hand. It would be hard to be apart from you but I could remain here with Adam while you tend to Warlock.”

There was a beat that went on a little too long and Aziraphale shuffled enough that he could see Crowley’s face even while remaining on his chest. Something was building up, expending in Crowley’s chest and Aziraphale could feel an argument coming on. See the start of Crowley’s protests. He gently placed a hand on the other’s cheek to pause them for the moment, feeling the smooth warm skin under his hand. “What better use for two sets of eyes on the same side? Aside from which, we were almost a decade apart after you first woke up. And far too long between the times we could see each other before I fell. To save this? To keep the world and our time together? We can manage.”

So said Aziraphale, the hedonist. Aziraphale of perhaps-delayed but always-yearned-for gratification.

Crowley felt the slight twist in his stomach. The hidden venom in Aziraphale’s words. Almost a decade apart after Crowley first woke up. The decade that Crowley had spent ensuring that they had separate missions so that he could hunt down Aziraphale’s replacement. The decade that had left Aziraphale frustrated and lonely and more than a little angry at him.

A grudge was a terrible thing for an immortal to hold. For Aziraphale to bring up their forced separation now, faced with the Antichrist: for him to hold that card and nurse the hurt and to _use it_ now…

He licked his lips, something in his empty chest aching more than the lack of grace usually did. “Just your way of staying near that little bakery.” The words came out finally, smooth but smaller than he’s intended.

Aziraphale’s hand slid from cheek to jaw, cupping roughly now as he looked unerringly into Crowley’s eyes despite the sunglasses. Only trust and the intensity between them ensuring that Crowley returned the gesture. “This is not… Crowley you **must** know that this is not… It’s not some sort of twisted punishment or spite.” Not that he hadn’t considered it over the years. “Being apart from you _will_ hurt but we _have_ done this before and I believe in you. I trust you. Trust me, my dear love? We promised to do this, didn’t we?”

The weight of that love, that expectation, was like the pressure of a collapsing star on his chest. It burnt as brightly and as violently.

Aziraphale looked up at him, open and trusting in a way that no demon should feel safe to, especially in front of another. It was all of the faith that Aziraphale had ever had in Her, maybe more so. Crowley was powerless to let it go unanswered, has been from the first moments in the garden.

“Yeah, you know I do angel.”

The dark in Aziraphale’s eyes that had grown when he fell folded Crowley up and tucked him safely into quiet corners. It whispered that Crowley might be good, because the very best angel up there had fallen. It hushed and sang and occasionally shouted when sharp was needed. Now it almost glowed with the returned trust and love as Aziraphale’s smile lit his eyes. “I swore we would see this through. We will succeed, and we will have all the time in the world afterwards to spend together. I will not go far from you.” He swore softly.

Crowley blinked and nodded, feeling his throat constricting a little. He searched around for something _anything_ to say to that. “Time enough to learn how language works. No one calls it a motorcar and you know it. It’s a bloody car, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale smiled up at him, the last of the tension draining away as he leaned in to kiss the other slow and deep. He sighed contentedly as he finally pulled away. “I’ll miss you too, my dear Crowley.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley each spend some time with their potential Antichrist trying to work out which could be the right boy. They eventually have the idea to have the two meet in order to get a better idea of the differences in the two. Of course, before they can accomplish that, there are a few things to smooth out with Warlock about how nanny Ashtoreth presents herself in Tadfield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it's been far too long since I did an actual update. I'd hoped to have the boys meet in this chapter but some things got away with me (of course). Given that I haven't updated since before Christmas thanks to a challenge and some exchanges I took on, I thought it was best to post something of the developing plot and hope the wait will be worth it. It definitely shouldn't be so long again until the next chapter.
> 
> Happy New Year to everyone!

“Evil always sows the seeds of it’s own destruction.” Aziraphale intoned to himself glumly as he stood at the edge of a clearing in the woods acting as impromptu referee for a game whose mechanics even he hadn’t fully followed. How The Them appeared to be following such convoluted directions, he could hardly fathom.

All Aziraphale knew was that it involved a couple of lengths of rope, an old flag, and some clearly defined boundaries. Also, that it was nothing like other games that Aziraphale had played in his substantial lifetime and which employed similar things.

One of the firmer rules was that, while they could all travel as fast as they liked, there was to be no actual _running_ as it would spoil the point of being a stealth game. This had immediately devolved into arguments over exactly what they could do. Jogging was out, because it was a type of running, but this didn’t solve exactly what constituted running.

“Actually, running is having both feet off the ground.” Pepper had insisted, an intensity in her eyes as she stared down the others that Aziraphale was frankly envious of.

“Well, technically it’s more about how much oxygen you use. And the way your foot hits the floor.” Wensley pointed out sagely, much to Pepper’s evident annoyance. “My dad got some runner’s magazines a few years ago when he tried to do a resolution.”

“Well _Mr. Fell_ can’t tell who’s using too much oxygen, can he?” Pepper had pointed out archly while pulling a face at the other.

Aziraphale decided, quite rightly, to not disabuse her of this notion. Instead he grunted a vague “Quite right.” before going back to his previous task of trying to figure out _why_ he had suggested the two of them split in the first place.

Crowley was so much better with children. Even when he knew what to look for everything that the children did just seemed so suspicious. Only now, of course, all of this was done without Crowley by his side and with the expectation that he could accurately report back on any Antichrist-like behaviours when they occurred.

He supposed it wasn’t all that bad, not really. He had collected some up to date reading on child psychology, development, and behaviours which he hoped would give him a better benchmark for the non-demonic aspects. Mostly it was just more difficult being apart than he had imagined. They had, after all, spent whole centuries apart from each other and not so much as touched when they finally did cross paths for fear of what that draw meant for both themselves and their sides.

It was astounding sometimes how quickly an occult being could get used to casual touches and familiar warmth. It ached in his chest; which only served as an insistent reminder of the reason that they were working against the Great Plan in the first place.

The reminder pulled him back into the present and he did his best to focus on the rest of the argument and the subsequent game. Adam was charismatic and seemed to demand the attention of those around him. He was almost compelling in getting the others to follow his convoluted games. Not to mention in somehow convincing his parents to let them all play out in the woods this way, whether or not they had Adam’s dear godfather watching over them.

He waited until after Warlock’s bedtime before making himself a cup of cocoa and settling in with the cottage’s old rotary phone. Something dark and restless in him quieted at the sound of Nanny’s gentle brogue greeting him. It was as soothing as a decent whiskey and a good book.

“How are you tonight, my dear girl?” He rested his head gently in the corner of the little back room, phone cradled to his ear as he imagined Ashtoreth pressed behind him, together in the home with her voice in his ear as they talked through their day.

“Well enough, I guess.” She responded in the breezy way that let Aziraphale know there was something else underneath.

“Ah, and what did he do now?”

“It’s not- it’s just Tad again. Some days I wonder if I truly need any intervention at all to make the poor boy consider evil with his mortal father’s influence.”

“Ah, yes. There is rather _something_ about politics in the Americas isn’t there?”

Ashtoreth let out a rather undignified snort at that but reigned herself in on correcting Aziraphale. It only made the bastard stronger. Instead she swiftly changed topics to ask after Adam and how things were going with his self-selected assignment in Tadfield. She listened with no small amount of amusement as Aziraphale detailed the frankly bizarre goings-on in Hogback Woods.

“If you mean you think- Look, no, Aziraphale. That’s just something kids do. Elaborate rituals and weird games. Agents of chaos, aren’t they?” Her voice was warm, almost proud, down the line.

“Well how about young Warlock? Any more demonic behaviour from him?”

Ashteroth paused for just long enough to make the other worry before letting out a frustrated little sound that made him ache to be there next to his demon, if just to run his fingers through Ashtoreth’s hair and encourage her to relax a little. There may be nothing they could do either way and, whilst this _had_ been Aziraphale’s idea, he wanted to spend every second they had left close enough to hear the demon’s artificial heart beating an echo of the humans they held so dear.

“About the same,” Ashtoreth finally admitted “full of himself, expects the world to bow before him, never impressed by anything. All standard for a rich child raised by a demon. Not even a hint of tripping people down stairs or influencing minds.”

“Mmm, and even though we influenced him for the better too. Adam has still not had any proper demonic influence, though he seems so influential in his own right regardless. Granted, this is of course only to his little playmates, and perhaps a few adults who dote on him overmuch.”

“Unfortunately that’s all very normal too. Nothing so far helps us confirm which of the boys is the right one...” There was a pause for a moment, the kind charged with just enough energy that Aziraphale let it hang in the air to wait for the next words. “Warlock misses you, you know. Hell knows why; you always looked a state that way.”

“That’s sweet of him-” Aziraphale carefully ignored the dig with the briefest roll of his eyes “and do let him know that I miss him too. Precious little terror.”

There was a snort on the other side of the line that lit Aziraphale with warmth. The anxiety was still there in the background but for the moment it could be put to slumber under the warm blanket of his love’s familiar care.

Three years passed with little clearer indication of which of the boys was likely to be the Antichrist.

Aziraphale was sat out on the garden wall under the near-perfect summer sunshine, curled up with a copy of _Truyền kỳ mạn lục_ and missing his demon terribly. Back inside the cottage the phone rang and Aziraphale uncurled himself and hurried in, smile bright as he picked up the phone. “4291.” He declared cheerily, smile widening to a grin at the annoyed groan he got in return.

“Angel, I know your number, I _called_ your number. Get a mobile.”

“Well, then people would be able to contact me, dear boy. I quite enjoy you, the Youngs, and dear Bethany being the only ones who know my number.”

There was silence for a moment. “The girl from the bakery has- no. Never mind. I don’t need to know. Look, angel, the Dowlings are going away for some meeting with the disaster president. Warlock’s too sick to go so he’s staying here with me. I’m expecting he’ll be feeling better a day or so after they leave. Might come down to Tadfield if he does, how’s that sound to you?”

“I think that sounds lovely, my dear. I have missed you, and I’m certain it will be an interesting experience for dear Warlock to be around children his age who don’t have their own personal chefs and tutors.”

“Missing chef’s apple pie?” Crowley teased. Aziraphale could hear the grin in it.

“That’s hardly the point” he huffed indignantly “when what I _mean_ is that it will be good for Warlock to spend some time around normal children. Or as normal as any potential Antichrist could be.”

There was a chuckle in reply that melted down Aziraphale’s spine and left him marginally more relaxed than before. “I know fiend, I know. Forgive me?” He asked; a joke, albeit one that was occasionally still a very sore spot for Aziraphale. If he was already mad it could backfire quickly but Crowley had always been a demon to take chances.

“I may consider it if you attend with some of those lovely cheese scones. And a small selection of books. It just isn’t the same when I have to use a miracle to get them here.” He grouched.

Crowley grinned. “Anything for you, you spoiled, slothful thing.”

\- - - - -

When the Bentley finally turned up at the little cottage in Tadfield Aziraphale was surprised to see Warlock in an appropriately boostered front seat with what was definitely 100% Crowley in that silly little half-bun that made Aziraphale roll his eyes every time.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but dither a little as Crowley got out and sauntered over to let Warlock out of his seat, all hips and swagger. What was he supposed to _call_ him? Of course the contrary thing couldn’t have called ahead to let him know that he was going to be presenting differently than he usually did with Warlock.

“Alright Warlock, you gonna say hello to Aziraphale here for me?” Crowley asked as Warlock rushed ahead of him, looking up to Aziraphale with a scowl.

“That’s Brother Sam. I _know_ Brother Sam.”

Aziraphale rushed forward, twisting his hands together in concern. “Oh, no, dear boy. You see I’ve never been-”

“It’s okay,-” Crowley interrupted, a warm smile up to Aziraphale “kids are smart you know? Of course someone as blessed with sight beyond the mortal would be able to see you so clearly. Yes, when Aziraphale was with us he used a different name and face because he had some trouble with the mob back in London. Now, of course, we all have our little _connections_ and once nanny saw what a gorgeous man he was, she quickly got to work on sorting out his little predicament. He’s here for now so people have time to forget all of that fuss and come to their senses about treating him right.” 

Warlock considered this with a frown, looking Aziraphale over imperiously before finally declaring “He’s not even that good looking, nanny.”

Crowley blinked, going still in a way that made Warlock squirm just a little, though he didn’t back down from his declaration. Not even as the demon slowly sank down on his haunches to regard him eye to eye. “Now, for one, he’s the best of God’s creations since the beginning of time. And I am old, _I know._ For quite another thing, being in love doesn’t ever-”

“Eugh, okay, okay.” Warlock pouted, stepping away and dramatically covering his ears.

Aziraphale was a little surprised to find himself actually _endeared_ be the display. Just slightly. He chuckled to himself and carefully set himself in front of Warlock, reaching out to pry his hands away slowly enough for the boy to have ample time to get away if he wished.

“Very well, no more of that sort of thing. How about we set up for an afternoon tea instead. Then we can see if there are some children in the village you could play with.”

Warlock rolled his eyes but headed towards the house at the very least. “Brother Sam, you know that’s not how kids actually work this century, right?” He asked archly.

Aziraphale shot a look to Crowley. “You taught him that.” He accused.

Crowley shrugged in response. “On my life, angel, didn’t need to. He just knows how out of date you are.” He leaned down to drop a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek, though the other only allowed it because he was also handing over a small box of home made scones at the same time. Miraculously still warm despite the long drive.

They settled in after a few minutes; tea and small cakes joining the scones and some cream cheese. “So… What exactly do I call you today, darling?” Aziraphale finally ventured.

“Ah, Crowley’ll do.”

“And Warlock, you understand what this means? It isn’t frighting or-”

“What, like I’m not smart enough? Nanny’s sometimes a man on her days off. He’s a man today. And we call him Crowley when he is. It’s not _hard_.” Warlock huffed, snatching a cupcake with far too much frosting and setting it onto his plate. “He had to put up with what you looked like as Brother Sam so it shouldn’t be hard for _you_.”

Aziraphale almost melted at the defensive tone Warlock had for his demonic nanny. “Oh, well yes, no. I didn’t mean- you see the problem is that some people struggle with the concept very much and I didn’t want it to worry you.”

Warlock nodded slowly at this, glaring daggers at his cupcake and working his jaw for almost a full minute. “Yeah. Nanny says I’m not supposed to tell my dad. Or my mum really. They wouldn’t get it and don’t like men being nannies. So I can’t let them know.”

Aziraphale sighed deeply but nodded regardless. “Yes. I suppose that’s the long and the short of it. As awful as the whole thing is.”

Crowley draped a gentle arm over Warlock’s shoulders, sipping nonchalantly at his tea until the kid relaxed a little. “It’s more than worth it to get to keep working for you. Not everyone understands but you do. You’re an extraordinary person, you know.” The voice dropped a little into Ashtoreth’s softly accented brand of comfort.

Warlock preened quietly under the praise and went back to his cupcake with a little more enthusiasm, though something uncomfortable did seem to be settling in the back of his mind. If Crowley believed that there might be any reason for that, or for the way the boy had taken so easily to the concepts he had introduced him to on the drive down, he chose not to say anything for the time being.

Aziraphale checked his pocket watch before pouring another cup out and huffed in annoyance. It was far too close to the time The Them would be making their way through the village. Not nearly enough time for another proper cupful. “How about we go for a ramble around the village after this? No need to get back to your studies right away when you only just got here.”

Aziraphale watched in satisfaction as Warlock’s initial refusal turned slightly shrewd at the mention of getting to his lessons.

“No, I don’t think so. We’ve already been in the car for so long. If we don’t begin lessons right away it may be too late to bother at all when we get back. Best to get started as soon as we can.” Crowley refused immediately.

Thus started a surprisingly short argument about how good a walk would be, and how they hadn’t seen Brother Sam in such a long time, and how nanny could teach him about things in the village. It wasn’t too long before Crowley ‘begrudgingly’ acquiesced, and the potential Antichrist, Prince of Lies, Destroyer of Worlds, was successfully tempted into a quiet little walk around a terribly idyllic village in order to meet his potential counterpart.


	14. These things come in threes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock finally has the chance to meet Adam and The Them and forms a slightly grudging friendship. Luckily the demons have found Adam because it takes his brilliant deductive powers to identify that there may be a third baby involved in all of this fallout.
> 
> The husbands spread themselves far too thin and worried trying to monitor all these childrens and being apart culminates in a change that only Agnes Nutter could have seen coming at 3pm when the Hellhound is released.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my update schedule does not exist, but I have this thing mapped out and by God and Satan I will finish it. I just have no clue when my muse will allow for it.
> 
> See the tags for updated warnings for this chapter. It all goes a bit apple shaped there at the end.

As it turned out it didn’t take long to find Adam; though admittedly that was small enough a task for someone who’d closely overseen the boy’s development for the last few years, as Aziraphale had. 

Seeing Crowley interact with Adam brought into rather stark contrast the way that Nanny behaved with Warlock. Not to mention the difference in their parents, which had been evident from the first seconds of meeting dear Deirdre and Arthur. Aziraphale had, of course, known the theory behind having the Antichrist raised in a position of power and privilege, but it certainly made it clear how the well meaning neglect and disinterested affect would also push the Antichrist towards evil from the start.

For the first time since this had started Aziraphale felt just a little sorry for young Warlock.

The feeling of pity lasted just as long as it took for Warlock to declare Aziraphale’s favourite little café ‘A crappy little hole in the wall’.

Aziraphale was about to tell the youngster off for his language when he saw something dark and judging pass over Adam’s face. The young man’s jaw tightened as he glowered at the intruder to his home. “Take it back.”

Warlock scoffed, lip curling up in a sneer as he kicked at the table’s leg moodily. “Make me.”

Adam’s face scrunched up in immediate annoyance, hopping to his feet with the sharp scraping sound of his chair being pushed backwards. Warlock, for his part, looked very uncertain of his tactic once he was being faced down by someone who might actually know _how_ to fight.

“Now young Warlock, that was very impolite to both my feelings and to young Adam here. I think it would only be right to decide to be more polite before Adam decides, as the young people say, that your vibes are absolutely rancid.”

Both boys turned to Aziraphale with a level of disgust and primal rage that had Crowley lowering his sunglasses in appreciation just to give the other demon a thoroughly enraptured grin. Aziraphale beamed beatifically in response; very nearly angelic. It was wicked. It was genius. It was so purely, delightfully Aziraphale.

He’d spent a considerable amount of time getting up to date with vocabulary and other communication (Aziraphale may refuse to get a mobile phone but he _absolutely did_ know how to use emojis correctly if pressed) and had done research around how best to sow dissent and rage among the already susceptible teenage populace. He had carefully weighed up whether delivering memes straight or using the term _As the young people these days say_ and found that there was a marginal increase in bewildered rage for him to say that and yet still use the term correctly.

It had the added benefit, in this situation, of successfully pulling both children’s anger away from each other and settling it squarely on a single, unified target.

There was a tense silence for a couple of seconds before it broke and Adam and Warlock were talking over each other; words a rush of admonishments and disgust. Adam settled quickly into the indignant insistence that, as an old man, Aziraphale had no idea what he was saying and _couldn’t_ be doing it right.

After Warlock’s first few spluttering attempts to call the demon ridiculous he settled for sullenly muttering “I’ll vibe check you,” in a way that was so similar to Crowley it turned Aziraphale’s bastard-smile positively fond. Which of course had the added benefit of only making Warlock _more_ mad that he wasn’t looking suitably chastised.

Aziraphale carried on blithely regardless, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin and suggesting that they all go for another walk to take in the village. The two boys shared an almost mutinous look at this lack of acknowledgement and Azirapahle basked in the knowledge of a job well done. They were already putting aside some of their differences in order to be thoroughly annoyed with an adult. He guessed that Crowley’s gentle hand, at the base of his back before it slid back to take his own hand, was a similar show of approval from the other.

It seemed to do something, at least, to cool the initial anger between them. Adam’s urge to fight Warlock shifted into a focussed determination to show the boy all the best parts of the village for kids, all the kingdoms of his own little world. (After all, Aziraphale was far too old and completely didn’t understand what actual children would find interesting.) Of course, no demonstration of the best parts of Tadfield was complete a meeting with the Council of Youngsters also known as The Them.

The meeting of a new person outside of school, let alone one that Adam’s odd godfathers had brought along, was met with the kind of formal solemnity that only young children could ascribe to such things.

Pepper had looked Warlock slowly up and down and frowned, declaring that they had far too many boys already and demanding that Crowley stop this sexist adoption of only boys and make sure he found an interesting girl next time.

Warlock, for his part, glowered imperiously back and declared that not everyone was one or the other just because they looked it and that Crowley _couldn’t_ be sexist. When asked by Wensley to prove this he fell silent and pouty, looking up to Crowley and back to the children desperate to win the argument. Instead he subsided and muttered “He just _can’t_ ” again before kicking at a rock that hadn’t been there previously.

Crowley pressed a gentle hand to the boy’s shoulder and squeezed in both comfort and approval. “Well, I think you’ll find Warlock’s much more interesting than you give him credit for anyway. How about you give it a chance like he’s giving you a chance, hm? I don’t think Warlock is any better convinced that you’re not terribly boring.”

The four of Them had bristled at the obvious challenge in Crowley’s voice and helped redouble Adams efforts to prove just how good Tadfield was.

As the resident expert in human children Crowley kept a watchful eye on the proceedings at all times, especially as Warlock was introduced to the wider group of The Them. He didn’t lose his trademark swagger and even seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be checked out a lot of the time but Aziraphale could clearly tell where his attention was focused.

It also helped his certainty when Nanny’s clipped tones would occasionally slip out to reign Warlock in from whatever mischief he was getting up to trying to get digs in against the other children.

For all that the Them seemed eager to show off on Warlock’s first visit, a short (and poorly-whispered) meeting decided that the newcomer would not be allowed to see the fortress in Hogback Wood on his first visit and that this would only be allowed if he both sufficiently proved himself _and_ turned up a second time.

Crowley almost couldn’t hold back the grin as this lit up the immediate instinct in Warlock to also prove that he was fun and interesting enough for the group. Not to mention the urge to ask _what the fortress was_ and why he shouldn’t be allowed into it almost constantly until it came time to leave. Children could be glorious, manipulative little bastards and he loved them all. 

The car ride home with Warlock was mostly quiet; the young man slowly chewing something over with so much focus that he didn’t even bother to kick his legs to try and get a rise about watching his manners in the Bentley.

Crowley didn’t know whether to be surprised or smugly vindicated when she stopped the car in front of the Dowling’s manor house and had Warlock immediately turn to him to demand that he be allowed to go visit them again sometime. Warlock insisted that his only reason was to call The Them’s bluff about how good the fort was. Crowley, of course, knew curiosity when she saw it and was more than willing to make allowances for it.

Of course the Dowlings were not the type to take kindly to their boy son going over to a village to spend time with some nobody unimportant children. Not when there were properly privately educated children of important political figures that he could be spending time with. Tad Dowling had immediately shut it down, and his word was law. Warlock would not be going to Tadfield again.

That night Nanny Ashtoreth sat at Warlock’s side as he did his damnedest not to cry. She cuddled the potential Antichrist against her side and waited for his trembling to subside before leaning down with a wicked smile.

“How about we do something to make your father truly proud?” She suggested conspiratorially.

Warlock’s nostrils flared and his jaw tightened, pushing down the glimmer of frustrated tears in his eyes. “I never want to do anything to make him proud.”

“Mmm? Not even learn how to lie like a true politician?” She cajoled. “Get what you want without him ever finding out?”

Warlock looked over Nanny carefully for a moment or so. She had never sided with his dad being unreasonable before. The seconds ticked slowly before he managed a shaky smile and a nod.

“Wonderful. I’ll bring you in for some extra lessons after Mr. Harrison is done tomorrow. By the time we go back that old bully won’t have a clue.” She whispered in a satisfied hiss that by now was almost comforting to Warlock.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but be impressed by his wily serpent as the months ticked by. He perfectly balanced the evil and good influences on his own, despite all the fuss he’d kicked up at the start of things.

For Warlock’s part, having honest friendships from normal children seemed to take some of the edge from his acting out. Granted, he did continue to seek attention wherever he could outside of his own parents and was still an imperious little shit when it suited him. Needless to say he butted heads with Adam a lot; the usual de facto leader not enjoying how contradictory warlock could be, even compared to Pepper and Wensley. All of that balanced around his growing ability to lie with a steady nerve and the occasional burst of explosive jealousy over children whose parents actually spent time with them.

It eventually got to the point where Aziraphale was _almost_ as excited for the children as he was for himself when Crowley and Warlock visited. Almost.

\- - -

In the summer that the boys turned 9 Adam finally started to look at Aziraphale with a growing suspicion in his eyes. Aziraphale occasionally caught the young man looking at him with a shrewd sort of contemplation in his eyes that made the spot between his wings itch uncomfortably. His discussions with Crowley only made him more and more certain that the boy Knew something and that it came from an occult source.

It was with this already suspicious temperament that Aziraphale found himself disturbed from his reading with the distinct feeling of \ _eyes_ on him. He’d been on his usual perch on the low wall, taking in the sun and thinking of how Crowley would have loved to be basking with him. It was likely raining in London, or else a claustrophobic hotbox, but the summer day was balmy and warm in Tadfield; perfect August weather. It had been perfect August weather every summer that Aziraphale had spent in Tadfield.

When he looked up Adam was staring determinedly at him from the other side of a freshly mended fence, pockets full of purloined apples. “Ah, Adam. Gave me quite a shock stood there like that. Would you like to come in?” He smiled, broadly gesturing towards the side entrance.

That seemed to jostle the boy back to himself and he beamed back a smile like butter wuldn’t melt in his mouth before heading around the side of the house. Aziraphale made sure that the door would be unlocked as he went to put on the kettle.

“Tea?” He offered over his shoulder.

“Please. Biscuits too?” The voice was hopeful in the expectant way that children have towards their favourite, and most indulgent, adults.

Aziraphale smiled to himself, feeling a little more settled on the familiar ground, “Of course, my dear boy.” He diligently put the half open packet of digestives onto the tea tray before taking it over and setting it down between them on the table. “So, been out scrumping again, have you?”

Adam had the decency to look a little embarrassed but ha had a smile playing at his lips regardless, knowing that he rarely got in trouble with Mr Fell. “They taste better that way. Besides, mum always goes on about me having more fruit and veg.” He offered up one of the apples to Aziraphale as he took a sip from his cup; hoping to make the other complicit in his theft.

Aziraphale took the apple and inspected it for a moment, taking in the places where it was bruising. “Well, what trouble did a pilfered apple ever cause?” He grinned, almost looking mischievous himself as he took a bite.

It was slightly on the turn, admittedly, but the taste of apples always made him think of Crowley and the first rain. With the crunch of it and the burst of flavour in his mouth he could almost perfectly recollect that open, gleeful demon with his unshielded eyes. How close they had been in the first rainfall. Aziraphale barely noticed that he had closed his eyes to enjoy the imagined sensations until Adam cleared his throat.

“Ah yes,” he opened his eyes slowly “you were here for a reason weren’t you? Had a question on your mind for a little while. I’m not used to you holding back any more.”

Admittedly Adam was, at this point, a little less inclined to seek out _all_ the knowledge he could. He wasn’t quite as starved for truth as Warlock but still the allure was undeniable, having someone who would try and answer his questions respectfully and honestly when other adults told him he was too young for answers. He still came to Aziraphale fairly frequently.

“Well” Adam took another sip as he seemed to mull over his question like a real adult would “it’s just I guess I wondered why me and Warlock.”

Aziraphale paused, watching Adam shrewdly whilst trying to look laid back. He wished he had Crowley’s talent for acting disaffected. “What do you mean, you and Warlock?”

“Well, I mean you’re my godfathers and… you’re whatever you are to Warlock. And we have the same birthday. Is that like a thing? That you have to be godfathers to kids with the same birthday? And if you do why not greasy Johnson?”

“Oh, no. You see, we just happened to work for the Dowlings together. Complete coincidence. I’ve known your dear mother almost since she was a teenager. Happy accident I guess, that I only have to remember one birthday and that you’re both such wonderful boys.”

Adam pulled a face at this… He _liked_ Warlock well enough, but he still wasn’t quite sold on him.

“Still, what do you mean by the Johnson boy? He has that group of friends you don’t like, right?”

“Well we have the same birthday, like with Warlock.”

Adam saw the moment Aziraphale’s hand went lax and dropped the spoon onto the table with a small splash of tea.

“It _does_ mean something, doesn’t it?” He all but crowed, eyes narrowing.

“Well, I, you see...” Aziraphale found himself floundering with his hands worrying over each other. “Oh, I do hope not. But you’re right, I may need to talk to Crowley. It isn’t the birthday that’s important, you see, it’s the _where_. Tadfield is important after all. Warlock was born here too.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yes, you see, there used to be a little church in Upper Tadfield and you- well that isn’t so important. But we do care about both of you boys, and these things come in threes after all.”

The light of triumph went away a little bit at that. Aziraphale was just being all superstitious. Unless he wasn’t… Adam thought that it might warrant some sleuthing; and he and The Them would make an excellent detective team. He made his excuses pretty quickly, not surprised when Aziraphale didn’t cluck at him this time about it only being a short visit.

The demon was on the phone to Crowley the second the door closed anyway.

“Fiend! How are you-”

“There are two families!” He hissed down the phone.

“Okay? Both alike in-”

“This isn’t time to _joke_ Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was pitched just enough towards panic that Crowley knew there’d be no gently leading him out of it and just resolved that he was along for the ride. “There are two families! The Dowlings and the Youngs. With the Antichrist that makes **three** babies.”

He heard the slight groan of horror over the phone and ignored it, bulling along. “I don’t know how I missed it. This one goes to school with Adam though. I’ll start keeping an eye on, but, oh, how could we have _missed_ this?”

“Wait, so you already know who the third kid is? Aziraphale, you’re brilliant.”

“I...” Aziraphale clenched his jaw to push down the pleased little smile that threatened at that, pulling almost bashfully at the edge of his waistcoat “actually it wasn’t me. It was Adam who pointed it out. Wondered if we were supposed to be godfathers to everyone with the same birthday. Still I’ll keep an eye, and see if I can get any more information out of that nun.”

“Still amazing, swan.”Crowley’s warm voice came down the phone and some of the anxiety melted away as he let Crowley lead them into their usual conversations. Push it into the background for a moment. 

He went to work the next day, gathering information and watching for signs that this _new_ child was the Antichrist. With a second child in Tadfield Crowley even made room to come over to Tadfield more often, reducing the hours she worked for the Dowlings. It was a change that Warlock did not take well.

The boy took to lashing out more often at the friends foisted on him by his parents and throwing secrets that he _should not know_ in the faces of the adults around him, designed to cut as deeply as possible and instil too much fear in them to discipline him.

Ashtoreth was impressed, just as much as she was sad to see it. By all means, a Nanny reducing her hours when a boy was almost ready to break double digits shouldn’t be as hard an adjustment as it was. If only he got affection, however strange, from any other place in his life.

\- - -

The balancing act of monitoring three very different boys often found Aziraphale and Crowley curled up around each other in the sun lounge, three bottles of wine down and whispering soft assurances and urgent promises by turns between their barely parted lips.

Some nights it felt like the warmth between them, their determination to hold onto this world and each other, could be enough. Other nights it felt like they were grasping at their last truly happy moments together and trying to cast them into memories that would hold up against whatever future awaited them.

Sleep was a thing that Crowley enjoyed but in those last couple of years he never slept once in the days that he was at Aziraphale’s side. The fallen angel could feel the warmth of that ages old adoration and care swelling his heart in every moment that wasn’t taken up with panicking about the best way to control the fallout when the Antichrist came into his power.

As the time drew close for the boys’ eleventh birthday Crowley set himself on ensuring that he would be present at Warlock’s birthday party.

They were in the sun lounge with Crowley’s long legs over Aziraphale’s own as he draped himself across the length of the surface. “Don’t want to break Warlock’s heart being missing for his birthday. Again. He already worries you love Adam more than you love him.” Crowley teased, grinning when the other squeezed his thigh none too gently.

It was true, after all. Crowley had spent millennia wondering about how much of the angel’s attention and care he could ever truly have. Longing for more of his affection. It made it as plain as day to Crowley that the young man missed Aziraphale terribly, even as he transitioned into a pre-teen, pretending to be broody and cool and denying that he ever cared what any adult thought.

“No, Crowley. In fact _you_ should be here. We’re almost certain Adam’s the Antichrist. Excellent demonic work in shirking your responsibility. I’ll be certain to take care of young Adam and update you if I see one of those little beasts stalking the village. I’m sure R.P. will have _something_ to say on the matter if he spots the poor thing.” Aziraphale muttered, like he was more worried for the hound than the mortal.

“Mmm, I’m not sure we’re _that_ sure, fiend. Just because he’s been asking about getting a dog? Lots of boys his age want a dog.” He pointed out.

Aziraphale pursed his lips at this. Crowley hadn’t _seen_ the absolute certainty with which the boy had first declared that he was going to be getting a dog for his eleventh birthday. It had made him freeze as surely as he would have being dragged impromptu into a summoning circle.

He still felt embarrassed about how strained and croaking his own voice had sounded as he quite explosively and unnecessarily listed all of the reasons that dogs weren’t quite so great and that another small furry pet may be better. _Or a snake? Have you considered a snake? Simply lovely creatures!_

“You have to admit that it sounds bad, Crowley.” He huffed in exasperation. “He was so absolutely certain before I started sowing some dissent in his mind. Without anyone else mentioning or confirming it. Without ever mentioning it during a previous birthday.”

Crowley had sighed deeply at that and sat up just far enough to wrap his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and pull the other down with him into an unhurried kiss. “Yeah, I admit it. It’s probably most likely. I just can’t… Can’t abandon the kid on maybe his last birthday. Not a very good demon.” He smiled thinly.

Aziraphale chuckled at this, holding the other as tight as he dare without crushing something necessary. “The only one I could ever want. The best one, so far as I’m concerned my dearest love. I understand. I’ll be here. You make sure Warlock enjoys it.”

\- - - 

This was how Crowley found himself posing as a waiter at Warlock’s birthday party, anxiously checking both his watch and mobile phone every thirty seconds or so as the time ticked closer to 3pm.

Somewhere in Hell, the biggest and best Hellhound that they had was released from its cage.

Deep in the Hogback Woods Adam was spending a wonderful summer day with The Them whilst being quietly watched over by the most recent demon to Fall from Heaven. He also happened to have his senses open for signs of a Hellhound approaching either here or the ice cream parlour, where Joshua Johnson was celebrating with his family.

Somewhere near South London a child threw jelly at an overexcited Warlock. The boy squeaked, and pulled the trigger of the gun that he had recently retrieved from the floor after an unfortunate incident between a CIA agent, the daughter of a prominent MP, and a bouncy castle.

The sound of the shot rang through the covered tent; the force of the kickback sending the metal into Warlock’s nose and causing tears to rush into his eyes as the sound all but deafened him to the next few minutes.

It was only by this virtue that young Warlock missed the sight of Crowley, who he could now tell in almost any form or gender, quite suddenly going from looking out of the window to looking down at the fresh hole in his corporation.

Crowley would have expected more pain. There usually was on discorporation, it could be a messy process. Instead there was only the feeling of panic and numbness fighting tooth and claw to gain control of him as he continued to look at the weeping wound in his corporation.

“No. No.” he blinked, as though he couldn’t quite understand. “Aziraphale.” All he could think as his demonic core was ripped away from his body and down into Hell was that this _couldn’t be happening._ There was no time to requisition a new one before the end of days and he couldn’t abandon Aziraphale now. He’d sworn they would see this through together.


End file.
